


A Long way to Holmes

by Cimerone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A collection of moments, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Light Swearing, No Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cimerone/pseuds/Cimerone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lillian Holmes had never thought about her mum who had "passed on" when she was only an infant.<br/>Then she sneaks into her father's room and finds a picture of her mother on her wedding day. She becomes... surprisingly curious, and so asks her father about her.<br/>-Short stories detailing the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Isabelle Long, from their first meeting-to Isabelle's death.</p><p>(No smut, Just good ol' romance)</p><p>Also found on Fanfiction.Net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**-Discovering Isabelle Holmes**

Lillian Holmes had never put too much thought to her dead mother-oh  _sorry-_  her  _passed on_  mother. She had only been a few months old when the woman she hadn't even called _mum_  yet was in a terrible car accident, so why worry?  
She figured that if she had been old enough to remember her mother, then she might sigh every Thursday at Six-O –five PM on the dot (the time and day she died) like her father did, or possess some reason to by " _angsty"_ -but she didn't and she wasn't.

It was only on one horrendously boring Tuesday, when Lily snuck into her father's room and saw an  _actual picture_  of Isabelle Holmes that she took her mother as a real person. Someone who had lived, rather than some fictional character her father brought up every couple months.  
Slowly she picked up the small framed picture of her mother in her wedding dress, and stared.  
She was sort of plain with a pale freckled face and a small nose. She wasn't especially shapely, in fact she was rather flat chested and with little hips to speak of and besides that- quite tall.  
Lillian found this woman oddly beautiful. She had lively hazel eyes and long chestnut hair that went down to her thighs and a crooked overly large smile as she held out her hand to proudly show off her wedding ring to the camera.

_"Lillian Rosalie-Sophia Holmes."_

Lillian felt cold run down her spine at the drawling aristocratic (and deeply seeded with amusement) voice that belonged to her father -Mycroft Holmes.  
"Ahhh," Lillian said turning slowly to face him. He was standing in the doorway with a rather blank expression on his face, one hand resting on the wooden frame.  
"Ahhh is not a word Lillian," he said coolly as he strode across the room to pluck the frame from his daughter's hand.  
Lily considered making a dash for it (he would never go running after her) but instead sat down upon her father's (quite frankly) enormous bed and stared at her feet with great interest.  
"I was hoping to find…something," she said quietly, a strange feeling rising inside. Usually Lillian would have been defiant and babbling on about how bored she was and how he was entirely unfair for banning her from his room, but she couldn't keep her mind off that picture…off her mother.  
Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow, "That is a very pathetic excuse dearest," he said placing the picture back onto his side table; he then sat himself down next to Lily, fingers twining over his knees.

The teenager toyed with her long blonde (yes, blonde) hair, "Daddy," she said quietly.  
"Yes Lillian?"  
"What was my mother like?"  
This clearly caught her father by surprise and he shifted his position uncomfortably, "What does it matter?" he asked, effectively clearing his throat.  
Lillian shrugged, "I dunno, it just does. I figured I might as well find out at some point," she shrugged, putting no sign of commitment to her question in her voice.  
Mycroft seemed to accept this, sighing softly through his nose.

"I suppose it is cliché to describe her as wonderful, but that is the word I would use…"


	2. First meeting

"When and where did you first meet?" Lillian asked kicking her legs out and then shoving her feet beneath the bed, her hands resting against the soft cushion of blankets and mattress.  
"It was eighteen years ago," her father replied calmly as he seemed to stare into space, "And it was at a café, she worked there."  
"My mum was a waitress?"

* * *

Isabelle Long toyed with her long chestnut hair as she stared blankly out the window; it was a rather boring day. The café was completely empty of customers and she was alone, not that she would try to talk with her co-workers if they were there.  
She almost didn't even look up when the door opened, "Welcome," she announced, putting on her  _Customer service_  voice, something her sister's had taught her to do.  
A man wearing a suit and carrying an umbrella walked towards the counter, "I do believe a muffin of some sort shall do whichever type you'd like to give me," he said staring at the counter.  
Isabelle found herself searching for eye contact; strange for her as she usually was the shy one that didn't like to meet other's gazes. After a few moments she bit her bottom lip and turned around to grab the food.  
With her back turned was when the man was looking at her, she could tell. It was as though lasers were boring through the back of her head; she grabbed the muffin and turned around.

"Blueberry it is…"

His eyes were gray; an empty gray, it sent shivers down her spine. "Here you are," she said snapping out of it, politely placing it into a small paper bag, "five dollars."  
The man pulled the money from his suit coat pocket, "It is dreadfully empty in here," he said as he accepted the food and passed on the money. His voice was sort of aristocratic and drawling but it made Isabelle stutter, "Y-yeah," she agreed, "It's usually empty on Fridays," she flashed a sweet smile.  
The man seemed to think for a moment, "Would you care to join me?" he gestured to a table, "It is unlikely I will finish this," he lifted the bag.  
Alarms went off in Isabelle's head, all of them going  _Stranger danger, stranger danger_! and yet she nodded, "Sure."

Isabelle grabbed two plastic forks and followed the stranger to a table where he pulled the Muffin free of its paper bag and placed it on the middle of the table. He accepted a fork before he sat down. Isabelle joined him; she couldn't help but think of him as looking elegant. The way he was sitting with his back straight and his legs crossed at the ankle, his fork poised in his long pale fingers.  
She swallowed air, unsure of what to say, "How are you this fine morning?" she inquired with a soft humored smile, he returned the smile though it seemed forced.  
"Fine."  
"That's good…"  
The young woman brushed back a few hairs with one hand and reached out with the other, her fork slicing into the soft flesh of the muffin. She then pulled the fork back and stuffed the end into her mouth.  
The man followed her lead. After a few moments of silence and chewing, the man put down his fork, "How are your sisters fairing?"  
Isabelle swallowed a mouthful of un-chewed muffin choking a bit the man looked slightly alarmed, Isabelle managed to get the food all the way down and she blinked at the stranger, "They're fine," once again something in her mind was screaming at her to get up and leave.  
"Then I'm correct?  _Good._ " He said, his voice having taken up a strange sing song quality when at the end of his sentence.  
What was that supposed to mean?  
"You live with them correct? Both older then you and I assume both are bordering on abusive," he hummed to her.

Isabelle's mouth dropped open, "My sisters are not abusive!" she shouted indignantly, her plastic fork slammed onto the table.  
" _Bordering,_ and not physically no," the man replied coolly, "But I see that you changed your shirt three to four times this morning, you don't even remotely seem like the kind of person to worry that much about your clothes unless someone prompted you to. You also appeared to have been crying this morning."  
Isabelle tugged at her hair, "That's not-"  
"You clearly think of yourself as a lesser person just going by your demeanor, that of course could come from your parents but considering you live with your sisters," he put his fork down and his gray irises flickered quickly over her, "They want you to cut your hair…"

"Stop it!"

Isabelle stood up, "Th-thank you very much for sharing your breakfast with me but I-I have work to do!" she whipped around and darted into a back room hoping for the man to disappear.  
God, had he been stalking her? The way he talked to her it was as if he could read her like a book! She took in a few calming breaths, her sister's weren't like that! Ok, maybe they gave her a few pointers on how to dress that morning but that didn't mean they were abusive!  
She tugged at her hair as she waited, a tear rolling down her nose. After a short while she heard the bell that rang whenever the door was used.  
Slowly she peaked out and saw the Café once again empty, she walked over to the counter and leaned against it heavily.  
She stared at the door with a strange feeling settling in her stomach, and then her gaze lowered and landed on a small tented piece of paper.  
Curiously she walked across the room and picked it up examining its contents.

**_I apologize deeply for upsetting you; please accept my offer to share another conversation next Friday._ **

**_-MH_ **

And despite herself, Isabelle found herself smiling! "Yeah, ok," she said to herself, "It's a date."


	3. In the rain

Lillian was utterly surprised by her father's forwardness, what had come over him? It couldn't have been  _love at first sight_ that was just ridiculous and illogical.  
"I was bored," her father said, reading his daughter's expression, "As it turned out, I was finding it harder and harder to stay away from her."

* * *

Isabelle had grown used to boredom accompanying her least busy day of the week, but now the man that had visited her before had become a regular and would arrive every Friday without fail.  
Then they would sit at a table, eat, and talk.  
Somehow she found herself accepting him over and over again despite their strange start, the man never talked about her life as though he knew her again; rather he started asking simple questions. And in return she would ask him, even though she would get vague answers.  
It went on for nearly a month before he suddenly stopped coming. Every Friday she would wait, and every Friday she would be disappointed.  
Isabelle found herself irrationally terrified that he might have been hurt and in a hospital or a ditch somewhere.  
Or something worse!  
Isabelle felt stung, he could have been dead and she didn't even know his name! She knew his initials to be MH, how could she have not asked him his name? ' _He's bored of you'_  she thought suddenly and sourly ' _he realized what a stupid piece of shit you are, and so he's stopped coming.'  
_ Unsurprisingly, her self-hatred came in the voices of her sisters Maria and Gloria.

Slowly she walked across the room to the door, a pair of keys dangling from her fingers in readiness to lock the door behind her. She stared blankly at the outside through the glass of the door and sighed; it was dark and pouring rain _. Great_. She hadn't brought a jacket or an umbrella. "Isabelle you are an idiot," she whispered in a chastising tone.  
Preparing for the rain she reached out to open the door when she suddenly spotted a tall figure holding an open umbrella, barely visible through the gloom.  
"Ah!" exclaimed Isabelle, not knowing anything else to say. She opened the door and dashed outside (quickly locking the door behind her) till she was close to the man. Ice cold rain immediately soaked through her clothes and threatened to drench her thick braid of chestnut hair. Goosebumps stood out on her pale skin, and she was quick to fold her arms over each other.  
The tall figure turned and looked blankly at her, his mouth its usual thin line. Isabelle felt relief wash through her and without warning she ran forwards and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, secretly relishing the warmth of his body. MH made a surprised yelp in the back of his throat, his whole body going rigid.

It didn't take long for Isabelle to realize what she was doing and she pulled away quickly, no longer underneath the safety of the Umbrella she rubbed at her bare arms.  
"Apologies for my absence," the tall man said with an embarrassed clearing of his throat, Isabelle got the feeling that he was just guessing why she had hugged him, "I'm afraid that I had a... personal matter that kept me rather busy."  
"It's alright," Isabelle replied softly, "I was just worried that…Well, that something had happened to you!"  
The man seemed even more taken aback but didn't speak, after a while he stepped closer to her, offering his umbrella as shelter.  
"Thank you," Isabelle said brushing a few damp hairs away from her face. She looked into his empty gray eyes, shining through the dark of night. He was clearly confused, and for some reason that made her feel better about the whole thing.  
"Might I walk you home Miss Long?" he inquired, "Seeing as we are not far from your apartment and I have portable cover," he flashed a thin smile which didn't  _quite_  extend to his eyes.  
"Oh, uh…yes, yes you may," Isabelle replied, flustered. MH extended his arm and she cautiously put her hand upon it.  
"I promise you Miss Long, I will not kill you. If I wanted to I would have done so already," MH said, not looking at her but in such a calm voice that Isabelle had no problem believing him.

"I didn't think that you were going to kill me, just kidnap me," she shrugged her thin shoulders, a soft smile growing on her face.  
"Yes well, neither of those things would apply to you…to my enemies on the other hand," he drawled. Isabelle attempted to convince herself that the sincerity in his voice was merely her imagination, but the expression on his face seemed to cement in her mind that he wasn't.

_Who is this man?!_

"Well then, I'm glad I'm not one of your enemies," Isabelle replied, glancing at MH. Speaking of MH…. "It just occurred to me today that I don't even know your name!" she caught sight of her apartment building and so stopped walking.  
The man made a soft "hm" sound, "It seems I neglected to tell you hadn't I," he commented, and Isabelle got the feeling that he had fully intended to wait on telling her.  
"Mycroft Holmes," he put out his hand, long fingers curling around hers as she took it. Isabelle blushed at the connectedness of their hands as they shook, her eyes trailing over his frame without thought.  
"Isabelle Long," she replied, pulling her hand away hastily and tucking it underneath her arm. MH er…Mycroft nodded, "I know."  
"God, don't say things like that," Isabelle yelped stepping back, her brow furrowed, "I keep changing my mind about you; I don't need to do it again!"  
He didn't respond to this, instead he continued to walk which forced Isabelle to follow his lead. Her thoughts swimming as she tried to rationalize why she had insisted upon waiting for this man, he was strange, rather mysterious, rude and insulting!  
But then again, he was also handsome, a gentlemen, and he treated her like a person when he wasn't being rude. He had a smile that when real seemed to light up the room and make Isabelle's heart flutter!

The young woman tensed as Mycroft spoke up again, "This is it, is it not?" he gestured vaguely to the brick building with his free hand.  
She nodded, "Yes that's it, thank you very much for the shelter," she nodded her head in thanks. He smiled ever so slightly…ah, there was that flutter again.  
Isabelle swallowed, pulling together the courage to leave the safety of Mycroft's umbrella. But before she could she was brought in by his voice.  
"Perhaps Miss Long, at some point in this month you would be open to the idea of going on a date with me?"  
Taken by surprise, Isabelle floundered for something to say, "You uh….You want to go on a date with  _me_?" she yelped.  
"Considering the only other person I could ask in this situation is myself…" Mycroft said the end of his sentence trailing off sardonically.  
Isabelle blushed furiously, "Look, I appreciate it Mr. Holmes but-I just don't know!" she crossed her arms defiantly.  
The man didn't appear to be put off, he merely shrugged his thin shoulders, "Very well, if you ever change your mind here is my number," he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper with elegantly written numbers on it.  
Isabelle accepted it, staring at the parchment for a few moments, "I will consider it," she said softly. "That is all I ask," Mycroft replied calmly.  
Isabelle smiled softly before she finally left the safety of the umbrella and darted to the door, she turned around in hopes of waving goodbye only to realize that he was no longer there.

"Mysterious indeed," she mumbled to herself, and then she went inside.


	4. First date...? (Part 1)

**-First date…? (Part 1)**

 

Lily couldn't help but scoff at the whole thing, "That's it? She calls you, you go on the date, and you fall _in love_? That's so boring Daddy!" she announced, crossing her arms.  
Her father couldn't hide a soft chuckle, "It was anything but. To tell the truth-as I _so often do_ -the first date could not really be defined as a first date…"

* * *

Isabelle brushed hastily at her tear filled eyes, her back to the large brick apartment building that she called home. Or she would, were she able to get inside.  
Her icy hands were tucked into her jeans pockets, her arms pressed against her sides in hopes of summoning warmth…it wasn't working.  
Absently she wrapped her fingers around her mobile phone, and she considered who she could call. She had no family beyond her sisters, and there was no way they were going to help her.  
She had no friends strong enough to come and help her, especially at this hour of night. And she certainly didn't have a boyfr….  
Without hesitation Isabelle pulled her phone out, pulling off the little piece of paper which she had taped to the back of said phone.  
She dialed the number and anxiously waited as it rang.

"Yes?"

It was a woman's voice, Isabelle tensed her shoulders, "H-hi, I'm calling for Mycroft Holmes…who is this?"  
She could hear the woman on the other end walk, clearly wearing high heeled shoes, "This is his Private Assistant, and how may I _assist_ you?"  
Isabelle felt something inside her relax, "M-my name is Isabelle Long, if you tell him the name I'm sure he'll recognize it…Please, I need to talk to him!" she tried to keep the sob from breaking free, but it was no use.  
The woman (who remained nameless) made a small 'hm' , and Isabelle thought she heard her knock on someone's door, then in a quiet voice say, "Call for you sir, a one-Isabelle Long wishes to speak with you."  
After a few agonizing moments Isabelle was met with the person she had been waiting for. "Miss Long, to what do I owe the pleasure?"  
His tone reminded her of a snake trying to coax in a mouse, and Isabelle greatly considered hanging up and trying for one of her Co-workers.  
And yet she forged on, "I don't mean to bother you Mr. Holmes, b-but I was locked out of my house and I don't have my car keys! My sisters…My sisters refuse to let me back in, and I don't have any money or…or anything!" she was aware that she was babbling, but what else could she do?  
The answer she got had a dangerous edge to it, "Are you hurt in any way?"  
Isabelle shook her head, only to remember that he couldn't see her, "No, I'm fine I'm just…cold, and tired," she sniffled, pressing her free hand against her forehead.

"Remain where you are, I shall be there shortly."

The young woman nodded as he hung up, feeling as though a golf ball had lodged itself in her throat. Had she just made a terrible mistake? While she had known Mycroft Holmes for probably two months now, after their talk in the rain his Friday visits had stopped (Not that she could blame him for being wary of visiting her after that).

It didn't take too long before a black vehicle pulled up in front of her, and a back door opened revealing her savior, "Miss Long?" there was a strange questioning gaze fixed on her, and Isabelle smiled softly despite herself before she climbed into the vehicle.  
The warmth inside made her feel as though she was melting into a puddle, her fingers now able to bend without trouble as she pulled her seatbelt on.  
Mycroft sat next to her adorned in his usual clothing only this time it was a black pinstripe suit with a blood red tie. His umbrella rested sedately against his leg one hand holding tight to the carved wooden handle.  
"Where is it you wish to go Miss Long?" he inquired, still looking at her with a curious expression-reminding Isabelle of a small, shy child that just found a baby animal. She wondered if even he knew why he had come so quickly to her aid or even why he had spent those Fridays with her.

"Oh," she yelped, "I…I'm not sure actually," her brow furrowed, "I would say a hotel but I don't have any money and I can't ask you to pay for me!" she folded her hands on her lap, wishing that she had thought this through a bit more.  
Mycroft hummed in the back of his throat then otherwise sat silent few moments, Isabelle saw his jaw muscles tighten and untighten, grip around his umbrella doing the same before he spoke again.  
"It just so happens Miss Long that I have a spare room at my humble abode," he said finally "If you are not too averse to spending a night in a strange home with a strange man," he gave a good humored smile which didn't stay, "You are most welcome to come home with me."  
Isabelle wondered if he knew how suggestive that last sentence was- probably not.  
"It's only for one night," she said hesitantly, surprised by the offer but afraid to show it, "so I _suppose_ I trust you not to murder me in my sleep…O-or is this your way of kidnapping me Mr. Holmes?" she added a joke on the end to show that she wasn't terribly nervous.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow in an almost playful manner, "Don't worry Miss Long, I prefer a challenge when I kidnap. And you calling me and having me pick you up, does not seem like a challenge," his grip loosened almost invisibly off of his umbrella.

"Oh my…" Isabelle yelped, unable to think of anything else to say at the moment. She had been expecting a normal house or an apartment building….This was a mansion!  
The young woman grabbed at her seatbelt when a short buzz sounded, and a large gate opened. The car proceeded onto the enormous driveway. Isabelle supposed that she should have expected this, considering Mycroft had his own _personal driver_.  
She glanced at Mycroft who was looking blankly ahead, apparently not noticing her surprise. Taking this somehow as a good sign, the young woman followed his example until the car stopped. He stepped out before her and opened her door cordially for Isabelle to do the same.  
The young woman complied, then following the (still strange) man into his home. The inside was even grander than the outside!

Isabelle's mouth flew open and she quickly pressed her pale hand to it in shock, "It's so beautiful!" she said in barely a whisper, her voice muffled by her palm.  
Mycroft tilted his head slightly, "Is it?" he asked blandly, shoving his hands into his pockets, "To your immediate right is the kitchen, there is nothing poisoned in the refrigerator-take what you like," he continued amiably.  
Isabelle peaked into the surprisingly compact room, it was perfect! Practically everything was pristine from the counters to the floor, not a single dish sat in the sink.  
Isabelle was urged to follow Mycroft through the house (which was equally as immaculate), where on the first floor he showed her: An enormous dining room ("Are those…chess pieces?") two bathrooms, a library the size of her apartment building, and a sitting room (basically just a smaller living room).  
What caught Isabelle's attention was in the sitting room, the enormous bulk of a Grand Piano, a light layer of dust resting on the keys.  
"Do you play?" she inquired, pressing down Middle C and admiring the smooth even sound it made.  
"Not often," Mycroft replied, brushing the smooth surface of the instrument with long pale fingers, "While I will forever be fond of classical music, I have never been quite attached as my brother when it comes to playing," he shrugged detachedly.  
"You have a brother?" unsure why she was so surprised, Isabelle withdrew her hand and tucked it into her pocket.

"Yes, I do."

Isabelle stared at him, though Mycroft was being intentionally vague he suddenly felt more…human, to her. She was about to ask what his brother's name was when he gestured vaguely to the door, "I'll show you where you will be sleeping," he said in a "said the Spider to the Fly" tone of voice that made her shoulders tense.  
Was he doing this on purpose? Or was he naturally creepy?  
At that thought, she smiled, and determinedly followed the Holmes out of the room and up an ornate staircase.  
"My bedroom is through here, obviously," Mycroft said, guiding her through the upper hallway. She looked at the door and found a small sign that said " _Mycroft Holmes- Knock before entry"_  
"If you need anything, there is where I will be. Though I must warn you," he continued, "I am not easy to wake up, once in deep sleep," he grinned slightly, a flash of good humor.  
The young woman nodded, "I promise I won't need anything," she replied, shoving a stray hair behind her ear.

The room she was to sleep in was plain, one large bed sitting on one side, a desk resting in the corner. The blankets were even a dull grayish blue, probably faded with age.  
She bit her bottom lip, "Thank you for uh…letting me stay," she said finally, a sudden chill running down her spine.  
The man beside her made a small hum of acknowledgement, "You're…welcome," his voice faltered, and his brow furrowed over dead gray eyes that matched the blankets.  
"Goodnight Miss Long," he added with a nervous clearing of his throat, and he turned and left for his own room.


	5. First Date…? (Part 2)

**First Date…? (Part 2)-**

 

Lily pulled her legs towards her chest, “What…was she to you? At that point I mean,” she asked, resting her chin on her knees.  
“The first few months were rather _confusing_ to say the least,” her father replied sullenly, “Isabelle had proved to be someone I could read like a book, and yet miss the deeper meaning of every word. I had no idea what she was to me beyond someone I wanted to protect. “  
_How poetic_ thought Lillian snidely, and yet she nodded in response, waiting for her father to continue with the story.

* * *

 

Isabelle couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard she tried. She would close her eyes only for them to snap open right away.  
Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the bed she was laying in, her long hair unceremoniously splayed around her pale face. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence as though a voice would suddenly come from the darkness to say….something.  What that something was, she had no idea.  
Tears formed in her eyes, and one freed itself enough to roll down the side of her face. God, she felt so alone!  
Taking a handful of her blanket she wiped at her eyes, “Pull yourself together Isabelle,” she mumbled, forcing her eyes to close for the hundredth time.

_Pathetic, absolutely pathetic! If you had kept your mouth shut, you wouldn’t be in this situation!_

She flinched at the sound of a door opening nearby and then shoes against hardwood floor. Mycroft was still awake? Quietly she reached out a hand and picked up her phone squinting against the sudden harsh light as it came to life. It read 3:00AM , and she frowned, “Preparing my demise Mr. Holmes?” she whispered to herself jokingly and just as quietly as before.  
Without thinking she pulled the covers off of her bare legs, climbed out of the bed, and set about pulling her jeans back on.  
The light of the hallway was shut off; all she could hear was his footsteps echoing through one of the stairwells.  
Walking slowly across the room, Isabelle opened the door absent mindedly brushing through her hair with her fingers in hopes of appearing presentable. She found herself struggling to see through the darkness, her bare feet making an almost silent _thunk_ against the floor. She paused at the top of the stairs, listening once again for voices. When none came, she carefully descended, pausing every time she found a squeaky stair.  
Eventually she was downstairs, and sought out a light, realizing there was one in the kitchen. Ever quiet she crept towards the doorway, to find the strange scent of heated water rising into steam. She saw Mycroft still wearing the clothes he had been in earlier- except for the pinstripe jacket, leaving a gray vest over a white long sleeved shirt. He was bent over a counter, pouring hot water from a kettle into a pure white mug.

“Is there any way I can help you Miss Long? Or do you plan on watching me from the doorway the whole time?”

Isabelle couldn’t hide a gasp; he wasn’t even looking at her! Cautiously she entered the room, “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. He turned around to give her a look that said _“obviously”_.  
“W-what are you making?” she asked, nodding her head towards the cup.  
“Hot chocolate, I find it suits my needs when I can’t sleep,” he gave her an apologetic smile, “coffee would merely keep me up longer, and I _detest_ warm milk.”  
Isabelle smiled in return, “I think the sugar would keep you up longer too, but I see your point,” she brushed a hand across her wrinkled shirt.

For a moment, the two merely looked at each other-struggling for something to say when finally Mycroft broke the silence, “Would you like some?” he gestured with the cup to the kettle.  
With surprising eagerness Isabelle nodded, warmth settling in her stomach, “Yes, thank you,” she said softly, pulling out a stool and sitting on it. She watched as he grabbed another mug and filled it with water. He then reached into a different cupboard and pulled out a large tub filled with Chocolaty powder which he generously spooned in.  
Once everything was put away, he offered her the cup.  
“Cheers,” Isabelle grinned clinking her cup against his and then sipping it. Immediately she regretted it, “Yow!” she yelped, swallowing down the lava quickly.  
Mycroft couldn’t suppress a light chuckle, “It’s hot,” he warned rather needlessly as he stirred in some of the chocolate with his spoon.  
“Thanks for that, I didn’t know,” Isabelle replied, her tone sharp though seeded with good humor. Deciding against taking another sip, she lowered the cup onto her knees.

She took in the tired form of Mycroft Holmes, and found a strange fondness build up inside of her. She wanted to know more about him; she wanted to have an _actual date_ with him. The way he held his cup was almost tender, like he feared he was going to break it if he held it too hard-and she wondered _why._  
Instead of asking such a strange question, she opted for something a little closer to home, “What’s your favorite color?”  
He stared at her, “Pardon?”  
“If this were a real date, that’s what I’d ask,” she shrugged softly, “I-I’ll be quiet now, sorry,” she looked into her cup, blushing red.

“I don’t see the point of knowing someone’s color preference, but I’ve always been fond of Emerald Green.”

Isabelle looked back up at him, suddenly smiling brightly, “Favorite mythical creature?” she pressed.  
He didn’t hesitate, “Dragons.”  
The young woman nodded knowingly, “Good choice…What’s something you’re afraid of?”  
He raised an eyebrow, and she was worried that she might have gone too far. He seemed like someone that wasn’t willing to open up about his fears or doubts…But, much to her surprise he simple replied, “Horses.”  
“You’re afraid of…horses?” What a strange thing to be afraid of, not that she would say so (never insult another’s fears) instead she readied another question, “How-“  
“No, now it’s my turn,” he cut her off, and Isabelle felt the warmth in her stomach suddenly disappear as his gaze swept over her form.  
“You seem to know a lot about me already,” she replied, trying to pull his attention back to her eyes.  
His brow furrowed, “Yes…” he said hesitantly, “I haven’t _checked up on you_ if that’s what you are thinking,” he added, sipping from his mug and then setting it aside.  
“Then how did you do it? How did you know about my sisters? That they want me to cut my hair?” she persisted, gripping her own cup tightly.

He sighed, “I deduced. You have heard the word before?” he gave her a look that was one part condescending, another part curious.  
Isabelle wrinkled her nose, “Of course I have,” she said defensively, “I own a dictionary and everything,” she tapped her finger against her mug in agitation.  
Mycroft nodded, “Then there is nothing more you need to know. I merely have to look at people and see their lives laid out before me. It took me years to truly perfect the act, but it’s useful,” he drawled, lightly shrugging his shoulders.  
The young woman looked at him with a furrowed brow, “Wow, that’s- that’s amazing,” she said truthfully, “But I don’t want you to do that to me ever again, if you can help it. My life is…mine. I can’t keep it from Maria or Gloria, but I can keep it from creepy men who kidnap people,” she gave a weak smile, a mere lift of the corners of her mouth. It was dropped quickly.

“Then _tell me_ Miss Long,-and forgive me if I’m intruding too deeply- why did your sisters lock you out of your flat?” Mycroft asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. Much to Isabelle’s surprise, he kept his eyes locked on hers.  
She twiddled with the handle of her mug, “It was my fault,” she said after a short pause, suddenly feeling as though a something had lodged itself in her throat, “I talked back to them, they both had a terrible day a-and,” she suddenly broke into quiet tears, the lump in her throat growing several sizes, “I’m such an _idiot_! They’re never going to let me come back, I don’t have enough money for my own flat!” she continued.  
Mycroft looked shocked for approximately half a second, before his expression turned blank. Isabelle barely noticed, lost in emotion she couldn’t control.  
“I-I can’t live on my own! I’m useless, the only reason I got the job I have is because it doesn’t require any skill! I can’t do anything. And now I’m crying in front of you, I’m sorry Mycroft!” she curled her legs beneath her.  
“Don’t apologize,” Mycroft replied softly, and if he noticed the sudden use of his first name, he didn’t show it. Isabelle was offered a handkerchief that looked as though it had been ironed until every wrinkle was _obliterated,_ she nodded in thanks before she wiped at her eyes and nose.

She could sense Mycroft’s unease, it radiated off of him in waves, despite the forced calm which rested on his features. Could he not allow himself to look even slightly uncomfortable? Without warning to herself or the man before her Isabelle broke into a sort of hiccup-y laugh, sniffling in-between chuckles.  
“What we must look like!” she laughed, “One of us crying, the other staring at her, both of us holding cups of hot chocolate!”  
Mycroft smiled lightly, “Indeed, this is an amazingly accurate example of a perfect first date,” he replied sarcastically, “if-I dare even call it that,” he added, lifting his chin slightly.  
Isabelle blushed, “I’d say so,” she said, her laughter dying down, “I mean, I now know what your favorite color is,” she shrugged her narrow shoulders, suddenly realizing that her hot cocoa had gone from lava hot to ice cold in her grip. A thought struck her, and after moments trepidation she added, “When you stopped coming to visit me every Friday, you said it was because of a personal matter. D-did it have something to do with your brother?”  
Mycroft abruptly reached into his vest pocket and removed a golden pocket-watch, “It is going on three thirty in the AM, Miss Long. Perhaps we should go to our respective beds,” he spoke quickly simultaneously snapping the watch shut and tucking it back into her pocket.

Surprised by the reaction, Isabelle stuttered to correct herself-but it was too late, he seemed to tune her out. With careful hands he took her cup from her and placed it beside his, “Goodnight Miss Long, sleep well,” he said earnestly, and then he left the kitchen.  
Isabelle was left staring at the doorway, “Um, g-goodnight, Mr. Holmes,” she yelped, though he was no longer in listening range.  
Had she hit upon a sore topic? _Oh yes_. But so had he when he asked about her sisters! There was something _extremely_ guarded about Mycroft Holmes, The way he kept his emotions hidden from her, the way he steered the conversation towards her, and of course, the way he ended their conversation as soon as she brought up his brother.  
With a soft sigh, the young woman stood up, brushing her pale hands against her jeans to rid them of invisible dirt.

She then reluctantly followed Mycroft’s advice, and went to bed.

* * *

The next day quickly seemed like it was much more enjoyable then the one before it. Isabelle woke, pulled on her clothes, and went downstairs to find the dining room smelling of delicious breakfast foods. She entered the large room, disappointed to find that Mycroft wasn’t there-but plates of sausages, eggs, a box of Raisin Bran cereal, a jug of milk, and lastly cold biscuits and jam—was. (This, alongside bowls, more plates, and silverware of varying kinds.)

She saw a note also sitting upon the polished wood and she picked it up, reading the perfect hand of Mycroft Holmes:

_Take what you like, I shall be absent for a few hours. Feel free to explore everything-excluding my office and my room._

_-MH_

Smiling to herself, Isabelle sat down. She took a plate, carefully lifting an egg onto it, whilst also wondering whether Mycroft had cooked it all himself or if he had hired help. Both were rather impressive.  
She stabbed the yoke of the egg with her fork, letting the orange-y yellow substance spill all over the plate.  
She savored the heat and flavor of the breakfast, but felt bad that she could only eat so much of it.  When she had finished she heard the front door open, and the tall figure of Mycroft came into her sight.  
His pale skin helped reflect how tired he was, the slight red surrounding his eyes standing out against it. Had he slept at all?

“Good morning Miss Long,” he greeted, “I trust you had a pleasant rest,” he added cordially, walking towards her. He was a wearing gray suit and a differently shaded red tie which matched a same colored handkerchief folded perfectly inside his breast pocket.  
“I did,” Isabelle replied, “I’m sorry I slept in so late, I didn’t get a chance to explore,” she teased. Mycroft grinned, seemingly in a better mood than the night before.  
The young woman watched as he fully crossed the room and took a seat at the end of the table, taking a bowl and a spoon and then proceeding to fill the bowl with Raisin Bran.  
“You enjoy that kind of cereal?” Isabelle questioned, wrinkling her petit nose.  Mycroft scoffed, “Good Lord no,” he poured milk into the bowl.

She wasn’t given time to dwell upon this answer when he spoke up again, “Oh yes, you will appreciate the fact that your sisters will be coming over to take you home.”  
Isabelle’s mouth dropped open, “I-w-h-what?” she stuttered dumbly, staring at him in disbelief.  
He smiled warmly at her, pleased about _something_ beyond Maria and Gloria taking her away, “I called them  and they promised to pick you up. Is that not what you wanted?” he asked, shoving the spoon laden with bran and hardened raisins into his mouth.  
“Yyyes,” Isabelle replied slowly, failing to express into words her genuine confusion.  
“Good, I imagine they will be here soon,” he paused, “Giving you enough time to take a comb to your hair,” he took in another mouthful.  
Isabelle wasn’t sure if she should have been insulted by that or not but she quickly realized that her hair was indeed a large rat’s nest of tangles.

She had to wait until Mycroft was finished with breakfast before he was able to locate a comb that might actually work on her thick hair, his own hair was of course far more manageable and sought no need of a regular brush.  
The young woman sighed as she set to work, “I’ll at least get the surface hair,” she mumbled, feeling self-conscious underneath the gaze of Mycroft.  
“If you need help-” he started, then seemed to catch himself, “I’m sure your sisters will be willing to,” he said the last part quickly, clearly placing that sentence in the place of _“I am willing to”_.  
Isabelle couldn’t help blush at the sentiment he _almost_ offered to her eventually deciding that she had well and truly lost it.

The silence was suddenly filled with loud banging that echoed through the entire building.

“Ah that must be your family,” Mycroft said stiffly, his rather large nose wrinkling at the base. Isabelle nodded mutely, setting the comb aside to follow the strange man to the front door.  
Said door was opened, revealing Maria and Gloria in all their majesty.  
Maria was a short thing, freckles dotting her small nose. Her golden hair was cut close to her scalp, giving her the illusion of having no hair at all in the correct lighting.  
Gloria was taller, though not reaching the great height Isabelle possessed. She had slightly longer hair, colored like mud-with the same freckled nose and thin face as her sisters.  
It wasn’t hard to see that they were all related, they all had an excess of forehead, thin lips, and small noses- but it was definitely difficult to see Maria and Gloria as _twins_.

“Hey,” greeted Gloria simply, but in a terse tone of voice. Maria picked up where her sister stopped, “We’ve um…we’ve come to p-pick you up,” she stuttered.  
Isabelle nodded, “I gathered,” she replied, “thank you,” she added hastily, so as not to bring forth more of their wrath. There was always the chance that they would change their minds.  
Gloria glanced back at Mycroft, who was now standing behind Isabelle, and sucked in a breath, “And we uh, wanted to say sorry! For locking you out of the house…” she clenched her hands into fists.  
“And, you know, calling you a worthless toad,” Maria added unhelpfully.  
Isabelle was stunned. They were…apologizing? This was the first time that had ever happened! It hit the young woman like a ton of bricks just _why_ they were apologizing, when both sisters looked behind her again.  
There were light tremors in their hands that they were trying to hide by clenching them into fists, both giving breathing shakily--they were afraid!

Anger welled up inside of Isabelle, and she forced out, “Can you wait in the car? I need to grab something.”  
Both girls seemed relieved, “Fine, whatever,” spat Gloria as in a last ditch effort to appear uncaring. The two turned and Isabelle watched them climb into Maria’s lime green car.  
She closed the door carefully; waiting for the soft click before she spoke in a tone that could have been called a snarl, “What did you say to them?”  
There was a pause where Isabelle allowed herself a few deep breaths to calm herself. Eventually Mycroft spoke, “I don’t know what you mean.”  
She scoffed, “I thought you were smart,” she hissed, “What-did-you-say-to-them?” she turned around slowly, to find him looking blankly at her. Always blank, like he was wearing a mask.

He didn’t reply, merely focused his attention on her eyes, perhaps hoping that she would notice this and her anger would ebb-it wasn’t going to work.  
“Mr. Holmes, I love my sisters. They might be annoying at times, they might randomly decide to lock me out of the house-but I still love them!” Isabelle continued sharply, “I don’t care if you had good intentions in mind- you never threaten my family! The only family I really have _left_ I might add. How could you do something like this?”  
His brow furrowed in confusion, and Isabelle’s anger did finally soften, though she still felt hurt,  “You’re like a child Mr. Holmes, do you know that?” she said quietly, “you don’t seem to know the difference between right and wrong.”

A look of apprehension immediately crossed Mycroft’s features, “Such praise,” he spoke sarcastically, clearly stung by her words, “I must speak to you again the next time I want to be analyzed. I did what was best, perhaps my view of right and wrong strays from yours-but they are not harmed. Nor will they ever be by my hands. Do not think for a moment that you _know me,_ and that you can compare me to a child!” he crossed his arms in an almost defensive motion, shoulders tense, “Good day, Miss Long.”  
The young woman didn’t move, her heart beating a strange rhythm in her chest. This was the moment where a decision had to be made:

She could choose to turn and leave-and never see him again.  
Or she could forgive him.

She remembered the night before, and chose the latter.  
“Look, I-I’m sorry. In a way, I appreciate what you did…but right now I’m not sure if I should kiss you, or-o-or _punch_ you!”  
He blinked at her, “Pardon?” he yelped, clearly considering the idea of her coming forwards to do either of those things to him.  
“I think I’ll do neither,” Isabelle added quickly so as to ease his worries. The car honked loudly outside, “I should go,” she sighed, “Goodbye Mr. Holmes. I’ll call you, and we can set up our second date…ok?”  
Surprised, he nodded, “I uh-yes of course, if you think it safe,” he said, tilting his head ever so slightly to the right.  
She nodded, “ I do. You confuse me, but I’m up to the challenge. If _you_ are willing to spend time with a worthless toad,” she joked earnestly, shrugging.  
Like a flower blooming, he smiled at her, “Yes of course.”

The horn honked again.

Isabelle said nothing; she merely nodded to Mycroft and turned to leave.  
The warmth finally settling neatly in her stomach. The relationship had very little likeliness of actually lasting, but she couldn’t ignore the connection she had with him.  
He might try to hide it, but he clearly thought of her fondly.

 _That fondness will end, like everything else._ She thought darkly, and yet, for the first time-she paid that voice no mind.


	6. Meeting Sherlock Holmes

**Meeting Sherlock Holmes-**

Lily rolled her head backwards as her father continued on about the boring world of dating Isabelle, until an idea popped into her mind, “Hey!” she said, making Mycroft raise an eyebrow. Ignoring that she clapped her hands on her lap, “What about Uncle Sherlock, what was it like when she first met him?” she grinned.  
Her father made a small hum of annoyance, and started in a very hesitant manner, “Well….”

* * *

 

“Stop fidgeting.”

Isabelle sighed softly as Mycroft exasperatedly tied her hair into a braid from behind, his long fingers expertly maneuvering large portions of chestnut.   
“Sorry,” she apologized without much heart, “I’m nervous,” she attempted to look back at her boyfriend but he merely jerked her braid, forcing to her to face forwards.  
“May I remind you Miss Long that this was _your_ idea, not mine. So any nervousness you might be feeling is presently your own fault,” Mycroft replied in his usual condescending tone.  
“Don’t rub it in,” Isabelle said quietly, twiddling her shaking fingers. It _had_ been her idea, and of course Mycroft was right. But when she had asked, it had seemed like such a good idea…  
Mycroft suddenly released Isabelle’s hair, making the braid slap her hard in the back. She uttered a surprised “oof” and was forced to lean forwards.  “ _Sorry_ ,” her boyfriend said, not even a hint of real apology in his voice- in fact he sounded strangely smug.

It was sort of weird how close they had become throughout their three (and a half) months of dating, mind you; it took them that long to _kiss for the first time.  
_ At one point Mycroft had broken up with her, only to suddenly change his mind…the first time he had ever truly opened up to her.  
Certainly he was still closed off, still wearing the mask, still afraid of a relationship that actually _meant_ something to him, but now Isabelle felt as though it was actually going somewhere.

Still, she had asked for an act of devotion from him to show that he wasn’t going to run away like that again…and this was what she got- though he put up a fight against it at first.  
 “Are you ready?” Mycroft inquired, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. Isabelle nodded mutely and found herself following him out of the building and into a car which was to take them to _“Two hundred and twenty one B, Baker Street”._

* * *

The first thing she noticed about 221B was the clutter; every surface was consumed by one thing or another. What got her attention the most was the skull sitting on the mantel, “Is that real?” she yelped. 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied plainly, searching the area for his brother.  
Despite all of this, there was a very homey feel to it, almost unlike Mycroft’s empty mansion.  Her boyfriend wrinkled his large nose in protest to a strange chemical smell which hung in the air, just barely noticeable. Without warning there followed the loud thunder of someone running down stairs and a strange man came into view… then left as quickly as he came, darting around a corner into a different room.  
“W-was that him?” Isabelle asked, trying to disguise her confusion.  
Mycroft sighed, “Yes it was, give me a moment if you will Miss Long.”  
With that, he followed the trail the stranger had taken, and Isabelle could soon hear his voice again.

“Sherlock…Sherlock, answer me.”  
“I’m busy Mycroft, if you have a case why don’t you just pop it under the door hm?”  
“I’m afraid I can’t. I could not very well pop who I brought with me under the door.”

There was a pause, footsteps, and then Sherlock’s head pooked out from the kitchen to look at her with startling gray eyes, then his head was retracted, “Abusive family members, emotionally rather than physically. In a relationship with someone...she’s right handed, as his her boyfriend if her hair is anything to go by. Boring, she’s searching for approval-she’s not getting it.”  
“Do you even know who she is?” Mycroft replied curtly, and Isabelle imagined his grip tightening around his umbrella.  
“I assume a client,” Sherlock replied absently.  
“ _Oh Sherlock_ ,” Mycroft sighed in a disappointed manner, and soon after he came back into the room with Isabelle, “One….two…three,” he mouthed.  
Without warning Sherlock burst back into the room, “What? What am I missing, who is she?” he stepped uncomfortably close to Isabelle’s face and looked her over closely.

“Sherlock Holmes, this is Isabelle Long. Miss Long, this is my brother Sherlock,” Mycroft said, smiling in his usual “be afraid” manner.  
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied sharply, withdrawing from Isabelle and standing near a window.  
“I uh…Hi,” Isabelle said, waggling her long fingers.  
“Miss Long works at a Café,” Mycroft supplied in the ensuing silence.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Isabelle got the idea that he still had no idea who she was to her boyfriend.  
While he stared at her creepily, Isabelle took in the young man’s features- he was tall, thin to the point of unhealthiness, and pale as milk. His eyes were more of an ice blue with different shades mixed in, she discovered, and had untapped energy behind them- whereas Mycroft’s felt more like a stormy and almost dead gray.

“So um…what do _you_ do? Mycroft didn’t tell me,” the young woman inquired politely as she could.  
“Consulting Detective,” he rumbled.  
“Really?” Isabelle’s eyes widened.  
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, “Yes…Not very intelligent is she?” he shot at his brother, who stiffened visibly. Isabelle blushed bright red, wondering if she should have gone for a better question.

There was silence after that, with Sherlock showing open disdain for her Isabelle’s very presence, and Mycroft most likely wishing he hadn’t bothered to get up that morning.  
Isabelle decided that this man needed to know who she was, or they would end up getting nowhere. So, taking a deep breath she motioned for her boyfriend to come towards her. Mycroft complied, albeit confusedly until Isabelle was kissing him.  
It was a strange thing, quite wonderful of course, but the size of Mycroft’s nose always made it so she had to tilt her head whenever she kissed him (and she imagined doing the same to Sherlock would yield the same problem…not that she would think about that often!)  
Seconds passed before the young woman pulled away, and soon found Sherlock Holmes to have an incredibly startled expression.

Mild concern took over Mycroft’s features, “Sherlock?”  
“Her boyfriend is…you. How did I miss it?” Sherlock snapped loudly, “It was blindingly obvious!”  
Isabelle wasn’t sure where to go from this, not having received the reaction she had expected. She tucked her hands in her pockets, and smiled her proudest smile.  
“Three months and thirteen days,” Mycroft said, sounding bored, “give or take a few hours.”  
The younger of the two narrowed his eyes, “And yet you refer to her as _Miss Long_?” he smirked. Isabelle blinked, she hadn’t even thought about it until he pointed it out-but Mycroft rarely ever called her by her first name.  
Was he not comfortable enough with her to call her Isabelle?

The elder Holmes cleared his throat uncomfortably, when his phone suddenly rang in his pocket. Relief swept across his features, “Excuse me,” he said, and then left the room.  
Isabelle was left alone with Sherlock, who was once again looking her over. “Who are you?” he asked in his deep rather soporific voice.  
“Pardon?” Isabelle questioned confusedly.  
He frowned and stepped closer to her, “Mycroft never introduces his _partners_ to me, nor does he ever look so fondly on them as he does you. He even _braided your hair_!…What makes you so special?”  
“I-I don’t know,” Isabelle said softly, blushing even more furiously than before, “maybe he’s just messing with me,” she gave a short lived laugh at her own joke.  
“And in return, why do you like him?” the younger pushed, dark eyebrows lowering over his blue-ish gray eyes.  
“What a stupid question!” Isabelle yelped, “I like him because he’s smart, he’s funny and sarcastic, he listens to me when I talk, he…he’s _Mycroft_ , that’s why I like him!”  
“How very odd,” Sherlock said after a short pause, relaxing as though he had been afraid of her reply, “I shall forever judge you for your decision to date my brother, but I can tell you genuinely enjoy his presence.”  
“Um…thank you, I think?” Isabelle replied, suddenly taking a strange liking to this man. He was weird, sort of like a high energy Mycroft and yet, not even close to that at the same time.  
“It was not intended to be a compliment,” Sherlock said snidely. Isabelle smiled in reply, “Yes well, I’m taking it as one.”

“Miss-er- Isabelle, I’m afraid we have to cut this short. I have business to attend to, and if I am to bring you home…” Mycroft cut in, standing in the doorway.  
“Oh, alright then,” Isabelle sighed, “It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes…I mean it,” she extended her hand, and Sherlock took it and shook it.  
“And you,” he replied, bowing his head slightly.  
Mycroft took this in with both amusement and confusion, but didn’t comment. He reached out and clasped Isabelle’s hand in his own (another improvement since their first kiss), “Good day Sherlock,” he said cordially, before he turned and left-taking Isabelle with him.  
The young woman shot one last look at Sherlock, and wondered why exactly Mycroft was so uncomfortable about talking about him. She would have to grill him later if the topic ever arose.

The two climbed into the comfortable back seat of the black car, which had been waiting outside for them.  
“Well, that went better than I had expected,” Mycroft sighed, pulling the seatbelt over him, “I take it that you liked him?”  
Isabelle considered this question for a moment before she smirked, “Of course,” she said, “your flittering description of him didn’t do him justice though…I hadn’t realized he would be that handsome!”

Mycroft went silent after that.

* * *

 

**Up next: Love at First Dance  
On a side note, if you want me to write up the moment where they first kissed (I did but it was old and poorly written so I got rid of it, I can always rewrite) I'd be glad to do it. Otherwise I'll do it on my own time. ;)**


	7. Love at First Dance

**-Love at first Dance ***

Mycroft had to wait for his daughter to stop laughing before he could continue…it took longer than he would have liked. The fourteen year old grinned as she finally sobered, “So, what happened next?” she questioned, strangely more interested in what he had to say.  
“I’m sure you’ve gathered enough information on your mother’s character, I have work I must return to,” her father sighed, and she could see that he was about to stand.  
Thinking fast, the young girl stood up too, “I’ll come with you, there’s more stuff I need to know,” she shrugged in that uncommitted way (which wasn’t fooling her father one bit), “So, tell me about a date that wasn’t as horrifically boring as the other ones!”

* * *

Getting a date with Mycroft Holmes was an ordeal.

The man had a very set in stone schedule (or “Orbit” as he once puzzlingly called it), and he disliked changing it for anything unless it had to do with either work or Sherlock. And thus Isabelle was forced to wait until he called her, and told her he was open to spending time with her. Needless to say she disliked this a bit, she understood he had a schedule and an important job (whatever it was) but she didn’t like how much control he had over everything they did together.

So, she decided to do something about it.

Rather than bringing the subject up with Mycroft, she did the _other_ logical thing. She estimated when he would be free next using earlier knowledge. She decided a restaurant, and then called Mycroft-asking if he was free that day.  
“I… am. Though I had planned next week to be-“  
“I know,” Isabelle lied, “I wanted to see you a bit earlier than that. There’s a beautiful little restaurant that my mother used to take me to when I was little,” she said quickly before she bit her bottom lip, waiting anxiously for the answer.  
Her boyfriend was silent for quite a while before he finally spoke in a syrupy voice, “Yes of course.”

She could tell he was bothered by the control being taken away from him so easily, but Isabelle was finding it hard to be sympathetic at that moment.  
She had a right to choose a location and time, and he would just have to deal with it!

* * *

 

On the day decided, Isabelle stared into a long standing mirror with obvious distaste. Her reflection merely showing her what she had been trying to forget…she was ugly. Her freckles stood out prominently on her pale skin reminding her of a speckled fish, and her lips were far too thin. Her eyes were too big (or small…much too small) for her face, she decided and she had too much forehead.  
And yet there was a slight rising of her chin as she took in her thin figure when surrounded by a form fitting green dress. It had a somewhat low neck, but now low enough to show much cleavage. The straps were also set low on her shoulders, not really holding up anything. The whole thing was clinging to her thin frame accentuating what little figure she had.  
Around her neck sat a golden necklace, her hair had been washed and brushed into silkiness, and two thin braids which connected in the back kept it away from her face.

She looked (dare she even think it) decent!

“What in _the hell_ are you wearing?” Gloria yelped, she had been passing by when her sister had come into view.  
Isabelle swallowed, “A…dress,” she gave a slightly wan smile, though the more she looked into the mirror the more she realized how stupid that article of clothing looked on her.  
Gloria raised an eyebrow, “I know that,” she snorted, “I’m just wondering why someone like you would be wearing it! How do you intend on impressing that _rich freak_ looking like that?” she put her hand on one hip and leaned against the doorframe, looking somewhat bored with the conversation.  
Isabelle found herself sputtering in indignation at the title Gloria and Maria had given her boyfriend, “He’s not a freak!” she objected sharply.  
“Izzy, you’re only saying that because you want his money-I get it. Anyways, I’d change quickly if I were you-the albatross will be here soon.”

Isabelle watched as Gloria sauntered off, and sighed shakily. She knew it was ridiculous to try and change now, it was going on five thirty and Mycroft was _always_ on time.  
Just as she expected, the doorbell rang exactly three times-he was here. Clasping her hands together the young woman made her way through the apartment on semi-high heeled shoes and to the front door. Taking in another breath, she opened it, revealing Mycroft Holmes in all his majesty. He smiled in a strangely warm fashion at the sight of her, his gray eyes narrowing so that making him look (and this was the only way Isabelle could think to describe it) _seductively tired_.  
“Good afternoon Isabelle,” he greeted pleasantly, “shall we?”  
She nodded, and then turned around to speak to Maria who was within earshot, “I’m leaving. I’ll try to be back before it gets too late.”

“Whatever.”

* * *

Isabelle directed the driver (Daniel Hammlin she believed his name was) to the restaurant she had chosen. Mycroft circled round to open the car door for her, and she accepted his hand to help her out, “You’re being overly cordial today,” she commented quietly. He didn’t dignify that with a response as he closed the door and the two walked into the building.

The warmth of the place was like a breath of fresh air compared to the enormous and (seemingly) meaningless places Mycroft had taken her.  
It was small, about six or seven (she had never thought to count) small round tables were scattered through the middle of the room, and a few booths rested along the edge.  The walls were a very dark color, and the floor was a deep red.  
Along the far wall was a small little dance floor, and soft piano music played over speakers.

Isabelle looked at her boyfriend in hopes of a good reaction, but his expression remained annoyingly blank. She walked over to one of the tables and sat down, at least pleased that the room was almost empty. A few couples and one family were sitting a good distance from them.  
Mycroft followed her lead in an almost hesitant manner, folding his hands upon the tabletop. Neither really spoke until the waitress came and took their order (Which included Isabelle cajoling him into not just getting a salad).  
“So…” Isabelle cleared her throat, “How have you been?”  
He looked up from his hands and smiled faintly, “Very well thank you,” he replied.

Silence.

Feeling every awkward second that passed by Isabelle bit her bottom lip, fully aware that she was probably staining her teeth with the thin layer of lipstick put on earlier. Her boyfriend seemed contented with just sitting and looking at her, and occasionally at his surroundings whilst remaining completely silent.  And although Isabelle was alright with silence usually, this was a date, and it was very annoying!  
“How is Sherlock doing?” she questioned, folding her hands on her lap.  
Mycroft’s expression somehow furthered into its emptiness, “He is well,” he said, “Bored, it seems is his favorite description.”  
Isabelle’s eyes widened, “I can’t imagine what he must be like when he’s bored,” she joked, thinking rather fondly of the younger Holmes brother.

“No… _you can’t_.”

The young woman turned wide eyes to her boyfriend who was glaring openly at her as though she had said something wrong, her mouth moved a few times but no reply seemed forthcoming.  
“Be prepared to clap,” Mycroft’s expression had suddenly softened, and Isabelle (slightly concerned about her boyfriend’s mood swings) mutely followed his gaze to where a couple was sitting. Both were leaning over the table.  
“What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.   
“He’s going to propose, look at his hands.”  
She couldn’t see anything from that distance, but sure enough one hand which had previously been holding the woman’s was shoved into his pants pocket. A small box was then opened in front of the woman’s face, “Oh my God….Yes, yes!” she cried, and the two locked lips for what felt like a good ten minutes.  The people surrounding all clapped slowly, and Isabelle found herself to be one of them.

“I imagine it was hard to see from your place, but there was a light tremor in his right hand, nervous but not afraid-obviously. This place is intimate, quiet, but not cheap-the perfect place to _pop the question_ as some would put it.”  
“That’s brilliant!” Isabelle announced, smiling openly at him, “I mean, I’m sure it’s not the hardest deduction to make but…wow!”  
“I know,” Mycroft replied, looking very much like a smug cat - though Isabelle thought she saw a light blush creep across his cheeks.  
At least he had finally relaxed the young woman mused, as the waitress arrived with their food. A plate of spaghetti was placed in front of both of them, Mycroft looking down at his own with tight lipped apprehension. “It’s not poisoned,” Isabelle assured, sticking her fork into the noodles and twisting it.  
He smiled almost wanly at her before he followed her action, “I’m afraid I’m not rehearsed in small talk my dear, forgive me for being so…quiet,” he shrugged his shoulders lightly-changing the subject, and then brought the food to his mouth.  
“That’s alright,” Isabelle replied, wondering idly how he could manage to eat spaghetti so…perfectly! She had already brought her napkin to her mouth in hopes of removing tomato sauce, while ate with his usual elegance. “I don’t go on many dates and I don’t have any friends to spend time with, so I don’t do small talk either.”

He looked at her with a curious gaze, “You aren’t lying, how strange,” he hummed, taking another bite off his fork.  
Isabelle’s brow furrowed, “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, wrapping her fingers around her napkin.  
“Lower your hackles my dear, I was merely confused as to why someone as friendly as you are- would have no _friends_ ,” he seemed to say the last word with a hint of disgust.  
“Well, if you were to ask Maria or Gloria, it would be because I’m too _Isabelle_ for friends,” came the reply, a crooked smile on the young woman’s face.  
Mycroft snorted despite himself, “Isabelle should not be used as an adjective. Your name can not describe who you are. It would be like saying that someone is too Tom to have friends, or too William to enjoy dancing.”  
Isabelle giggled, “Ok I get it, it’s just something they say,” she shoved her foot against his underneath the table.  
“I will not pretend to understand your family,” Mycroft said, a hint of breathy laughter punctuating his words.  
Isabelle couldn’t help but blush at that statement; it was so strange to have someone talk to her like she was their equal…well, sort of. Mycroft always had an air of self-importance to him. But at least he knew when to be quiet about it. She continued to press her foot against his, until a thin pale hand came and took her own.  
"You seem fond of forcing me into these things," he remarked, playing with her fingers. She knew that Mycroft wasn't fond of touch, it took quite a while for him to kiss her, hold her hand, even stand to near her. But when he was comfortable it was wonderful. Isabelle's hand was suddenly withdrawn as something painfully occurred to her.

"Mr-I um...Mycroft. I have-I have to ask. You aren't expecting anything to happen like uh...you know," she furrowed her brow worriedly.  
"Intercourse you mean?" Mycroft supplied, looking slightly hurt and likely confused as to why the subject had been so randomly broached, "Of course not, if you don't want it."  
The young woman sighed with relief, "Good- er-not good I uh...I'm sorry, I don't usually talk about this."  
"Perfectly alright," her boyfriend replied, "I understand that you are waiting for marriage."  
Her mouth fell open, "How did you-? Oh, never mind. Yes, I am," she smiled, "It's what my mother did, my father did, and I hope my sisters are doing," she shrugged, "You don't mind?"  
Mycroft sniffed derisively, "Don't be ridiculous, of course I do not mind. If I did, I would have said so."  
Isabelle raised an eyebrow, "You don't normally say when things are bothering you Mycroft, you like me to guess," she said.  
He grinned and then said with a heavy dose of syrup in his words, "It keeps the mystery in our relationship."  
Isabelle leaned across the table and planted a soft kiss on his lips before returning to her previous position, "Thank you."

…

The two finally finished their meal, and Isabelle was certain the evening was almost over. There was one last thing she had wanted to do, but...would that be pushing her luck?  
Mycroft had busied himself with re-folding his unused napkin into a perfect square, (punctuating that he probably had a bit of OCD) when Isabelle stood up and extended her hand to him.

"Care to dance?"

He looked up at her as though she had gone crazy, but as her hand remained steadily in front of him he took it and stood up, "I am not very good," he protested as Isabelle guided him carefully to the small dance floor.  
"Neither am I...I used to stand on my mother's feet whenever we danced here, I remember the jealousy when Maria and Gloria would go after me," she confessed.  
Mycroft pulled Isabelle closer so that he could place his hand against her back, the other taking her upper arm.  
Isabelle in turn gripped his shoulder and his arm in turn.  
Tingles ran through her entire body as she realized how carefully he held her, like the mug of hot chocolate so many months ago.  
She recognized the song as Ave Maria for the violin as Mycroft started to do a simple Box Waltz, She counted 1-2-3-4 in her head with each step, not wanting to mess up-but she quickly realized that it didn't matter if she did. Mycroft was quick to accommodate every mistake as though he could sense them coming! Then again, she wouldn't put it past him to have that power.  
At one point Isabelle decided to test this, and she took a long step to the right, twisting around so that she still faced him. He did the same, following her every move with precision. His left hand moved back and took hers and Isabelle was spun around and then pulled back against his body, "You lied," she whispered, breath hitched in her throat.  
"I did not, I merely misjudged my pure magnificence," he responded humbly. Isabelle couldn't help but laugh as he spun her around again.

Eventually it had to end, though Isabelle was strongly against the idea. The song faded and turned back into a melody she didn't know.  
"That was...enjoyable," he relented, somewhat out of breath from the exertion.  
"Yes, it was," Isabelle replied softly, trying to hide the blush which had annoyingly stretched across her face.  
Her boyfriend pulled free his pocket-watch and looked at it, "I should return you home," he breathed, "Your sisters might worry."  
Quite obviously, that last part was intended as a joke, but the young woman didn't take it like that, "You're right," she conceded.  
Mycroft paid for the food (though Isabelle originally objected) and then the two were seated comfortably in the back of his car. The drive was met with silence, uncomfortable silence. Isabelle was confused as to why Mycroft's guard had been placed back up, but after that dance...it didn't seem as important. She reached her hand towards his and placed it, her thin fingers stroking his knuckles but received no response. They arrived back at Isabelle's apartment and the young woman stepped out of the vehicle.

"Good night Isabelle," Mycroft said softly.  
"Good night Mycroft," she replied in the same quiet voice. She closed the door and stepped back, watching as the black car drove away.

She walked slowly back into her apartment, and opened the door to her flat. Maria and Gloria were sitting around the kitchen counter, one watching television and eating cereal, the other brushing her teeth over the kitchen sink (an annoying habit of hers).  
"Hey Izzy," Maria greeted in her usual condescending tone, "What took you so long?"

Isabelle stared at her, completely missing the question and a smile growing on her face.

"I think I'm in love!"

* * *

 

**Up Next: Ugly and Stupid!**


	8. Ugly and Stupid

**Ugly and Stupid-**

“This is getting sickening, it really is,” Lillian Holmes sighed as she followed her father down the hall. “Never get married my dear if you find…” he paused, thinking of the right word, “ _involvement_ , sickening.” He opened the door to his office and stepped back so that his daughter might go through first.  
“I probably won’t get involved with anybody, unless they’re interesting one hundred percent of the time. Otherwise it’s pointless” she snorted, looking around his office with disguised interest.  
“Yes well… If you find you do like someone, I would recommend being less blunt,” he smirked.

* * *

 

Isabelle had recently found herself wondering just what about her Mycroft was attracted to.

Her looks? Her personality? Neither seemed realistic. So what was it?

It especially plagued her after their first break up and then their reconciliation (in that order of course), when he had explained to her about how all his previous relationships were more like experiments to him than anything else.  
What if that was what she meant to him, and his assurance (that one singular assurance might she add) that he cared about her was all a lie? She loved _him_ , that much was clear-but did he…?  
She wanted to trust him! It was a rather important thing to do so. But how could she, when she couldn’t ever tell when he was lying? Or know when he was truly upset?

“I’m going to ask him, I’m going to ask him…” Isabelle paced through Mycroft’s dining room nervously. The man in question had to take a phone call, and then they would be on their way to some expensive restaurant where they would talk about nothing for a short time, eat, and go home.  
It sounded so boring when explained as thus but Isabelle wasn’t sure she would ever wish to trade it, even for a thousand pounds… _most likely because he has more than that inside his wallet_ she thought wryly.  
“Focus,” she scolded herself, balling her hands into fists.

Mycroft entered the room again just as he was tucking his mobile phone into his suit coat pocket, a tired sigh escaping him, “Remind me again just why I focused my attention on a job that requires talking to idiots,” he drawled, his tone sharper than Isabelle was used to.  
Shoulders tensing uncomfortably, she walked close to him and planted a kiss on his cheek, “Because you enjoy the rest of it,” she replied, though really, she had no way of truly knowing. She didn’t even know what his title was. She kind of knew it had something to do with government and politics but… That’s where her knowledge ended.  
He smiled faintly, “Oh yes, of course,” he conceded, reaching into his waistcoat pocket this time and removing his pocket-watch, he clicked it open an frowned, “We should leave,” he commented, placing it back into its proper place.

He began to walk towards the front door when Isabelle yelped, “Mycroft!”  
He turned around, “Yes?”

_This is a really bad idea! **ABORT ABORT!**_

Never one to listen to the screaming in her head, the young woman blushed, “I wanted to ask …a-and forgive me if this sounds cheesy. What um. What do you like about me?”  
His brow furrowed, “Pardon?”  
“I mean, why are we dating? W-what are _you_ getting out of this?” she shrugged, attempting to mimic his usual nonchalance- and failing.  
He gave a soft hum in thought before he shrugged in return, which felt rather like a dagger through Isabelle’s heart.

_He doesn’t know!- **ABORT!**_

“I will admit,” He elaborated, “That my choice in you specifically has confused me on a number of occasions. There is little special about you. Dreadfully plain in appearance and not exactly the smartest I’ve met in my lifetime. And even less intelligent whence compared with _myself_. And that is not to bring up the emotional damage you have suffered and now carry around like weight every day….I think-“

Without any warning to the incorrigible Holmes, Isabelle slammed her fist hard into his upper arm. This obviously sent him staggering back a few steps in surprise and from the force of it. Blinking back tears, the young woman darted to the closest place she knew had a locked door- the bathroom. Or rather, _one_ of the bathrooms.  
Isabelle tugged at the door handle a few times to make sure it was fully locked, before she stepped back and sat herself onto the pristinely white toilet (covered obviously).  
She tugged at her hair, tears dripping down her cheeks. God, she knew she wasn’t perfect…she was below average as a person. But did he have to be so brutally honest?  
This confirmed all her worst fears about the relationship- he didn’t care about her in the slightest. He thought she was _dreadful!_  
Isabelle stared at her hands, silently. Allowing the tears to fall onto her pale-freckled-arms. She felt sick, which was probably an ok thing considering where she was.

Agonizing moments passed before there was a soft knock on the door, “Miss Long?” Mycroft’s voice was empty, like the rest of him, “Are you…alright?”  
Isabelle frowned at the door, “No!” she shouted at him, “Leave me alone!”  
There was a light snort, “My dear, you seem to forget who’s bathroom you are currently residing in. I merely wish to talk with you.”  
She dug her fingernails into her leg, “Oh I’m sure!” she snapped, anger roiling inside of her. The injustice of it! “You just want to share a few more horrible words about how ugly I am, how stupid and damaged I am! Well, I have a few choice words for you too. You-you… _Robotic_ …. _Fat,_ _pompous, overstuffed --twat_!” her voice sounded strangely raw, emotions she hadn’t known were even there, bubbling to the surface. It felt as though she was yelling at her sisters for everything they’d ever said to her, but…she knew they were true so what was the problem here?  
There was a pregnant pause before Mycroft replied in an almost timid voice (completely unlike him) “Well, that was uncalled for.”  
She felt horrible, absolutely terrible. But was there any turning back now? Unlikely.  
“Besides,” he continued, “Fat and overstuffed seem too much like synonyms.”  
Isabelle couldn’t hide a smile at that. Why did he have to be so damned charming all the time?  When he spoke again, his voice was closer, as though he was pressing his forehead against the door, “Isabelle, I wish to apologize. I did not intend to upset you as I did.”  
She blinked back another tear which rolled freely off her small nose, “Then what did you intend?” she asked.  
“To explain what I am _getting out of our relationship_ ,” he responded, the last few words spoken almost wryly, “I mistakenly started with explaining things that others would find fault with.”  
She blinked a few times, “Others?”  
Isabelle could almost sense his backing away from the door, the soft grip on the door handle, and the cute little frown forming on his face, “Of course. I did not mean to imply that I found you ugly, or that you are less intelligent than is needed. Plain does not automatically equate to ugly…in itself, it is its own kind of beauty.”

She felt air pull into her lungs, almost overwhelming her, “Y-you think I’m _beautiful?!_ ”  
“To an extent…” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Yes, I do. I worded it poorly which is something that does not happen often, I hadn’t slept well last night I’m afraid and…am unable to think entirely clearly.”  
Worry set in like a stone, and Isabelle stood up, unlocking the door and peeking out at the tired form of Mycroft Holmes. She hadn’t noticed it before, but his posture was ever-so-slightly hunched, his eyes given a more faraway gaze and irises surrounded by a tinge of pink.  
“What happened? Are you alright?” she demanded, grasping for one of his pale hands. He looked at her with yet another of his confused yet curious stares, a blush creeping across his face all the while. “Perfectly, it was only a stomach upset that kept me up. I feel perfectly fine now I assure you,” he stated, and Isabelle found herself unsure as to whether he was telling the truth.  
“I’m sorry I reacted so horribly,” she apologized, and found herself pulling him into a hug…their first hug. Amazing that it would come so late after their first kiss, but who was she to complain?  
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly. Of course he didn’t hug her back. His arms hung loosely beside him, and it occurred painfully to her that he wasn’t sure just what he was doing! Or, he didn’t like her. But after saying things that were clearly embarrassing to him, how could he not like her at least a little?  
“I’m also sorry I insulted you like that, that was a bit childish,” she laughed breathily, “I don’t really think you’re like those synonyms.”  
She really, really didn’t. The man was like a twig! How she thought of those insults she had no idea! Ok, that wasn’t true, it had come to her on numerous occasions that he was on some sort of diet-as every time they went out he ordered something healthy-and then picked at it as though it would kill him.  
Another blush crept (quite unwillingly she was sure) across his cheeks, “Yes well, I am certain you don’t.”  
That was a lie.  
“I was upset,” Isabelle defended weakly, “I-I had never thought that insult would come out of _you_ Mycroft. Maria and Gloria, other boyfriends-yes. But you?” she bit her bottom lip again, “Even if they are true”  

He sighed softly, “Apologies again for that,” he said, “Let us forget that this whole disastrous event ever happened. And I promise that it shall not occur again….willingly,” he added for good measure.  
Isabelle laughed, despite the fact that her eyes now kind of stung, “Same.”  
The two stared at each other, and were anyone else there it might have appeared creepy. But it was nice; it was the right place for silence.  
Eventually Mycroft cut it short before it could stretch to an hour long, “Shall we go now?” he inquired, and Isabelle nodded-taking his arm and allowing herself to be led towards the front door.

“This time I promise not to punch you.”

* * *

 

**Next Up:  Picnic Day**


	9. Picnic Day

**Picnic day*-**

“Sheesh,” Lily mumbled after having listened about her mother’s ridiculously sensitive personality.  
Poor woman couldn’t take a little constructive criticism!  
She had previously seated herself behind her father’s desk, hands folded innocently on her lap, “What next?” she asked, edging forwards.  
Mycroft was busy typing in one of the probably daily changing code into his laptop, “Depends on what you would like to hear,” he said distractedly, gray eyes staring at the screen as though his daughter was no longer his problem.  
Lillian was used to this to some extent, but frowned anyhow, “Come on Daddy,” she whined, “Tell me about the date _afte_ r she cried in the bathroom.”  
Her father turned his attention to her, raising an eyebrow, “It _was_ different from the others …Though you must promise not to laugh this time,” he ended with a smirk.

* * *

“This is ridiculous, what self-respecting person wastes their time traveling across _any_ expanse of land just to eat a singular meal _on the ground_? It’s not as though it is a special meal either-thank you my dear-the cuisine consists mainly of soggy sandwiches and lukewarm cups of apple juice or variations upon that.”

“Are you going to be complaining all day?”

Isabelle was given one of those “ _what do you think_?” stares, and she rolled her eyes.  If you hadn’t guessed by now, the two were seated upon an old blanket of Isabelle’s, in the middle of a lush green park. An even older picnic basket sat all on its lonesome away from the blanket, its insides purged of all picnic fare.  
Mycroft held his _lukewarm cup of juice_ with one hand, his long legs spread out in front of him (his third try at a comfortable sitting position).  “You said that a picnic was ok with you,” Isabelle said after a short pause, “If you hate them so much, why did you say yes?”  
He sighed softly, brushing imaginary dirt off of his pant leg, “Guilt mostly. Which is a new experience for me; I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. This seems to have solved the problem beautifully,” he explained crisply.  
He was given the benefit of another eye roll but this one was mixed alongside a fond little smile. Difficult as he was she still enjoyed his presence.

And hey, this meant that he was er, “comfortable” enough to talk.

A low rumble echoed from some distant part of the sky, and Isabelle looked up to see the thick layer of clouds slowly forming.  
“And of course,” Mycroft said in his all-knowing tone of voice, “There is the threat of rain,” he smirked. Grabbing a ham sandwich, Isabelle pulled it from its plastic wrapping and bit into it defiantly, “It won’t rain on this one,” she said sharply and with her mouth full just to annoy him.  
Which was of course, when a fat drop landed right on top of her head and was followed by others quite quickly. The young woman sighed through her nose and re-wrapped her sandwich, shooting a glare at Mycroft who was smiling. It was as though he was sending the message “I told you so” psychically to her. The young brunette felt a cold wind run through her and she hugged her bare arms, reminding her that the warm weather they had been experiencing for the longest time was to go away for an even longer time. The rain began to beat down harder upon the couple and Isabelle decided to just let it go. She took the cup of juice from Mycroft’s hand and dumped the contents onto the grass then shoved it into the basket.  
“Why are you rushing my dear?” Mycroft asked, still looking remarkably amused by all of this-despite it happening to him as well. The smug jerk.  
“Because we’re going to be soaked if I don’t,” she replied, ushering him to his feet so that she could fold up the blanket. Isabelle turned her back on him, “You could help me you know!” she shivered against the rain which had had suddenly begun to soak through her shirt.

_*FWOOP*_

Isabelle startled and turned around to see her boyfriend standing serenely beneath his opened umbrella. “You’re doing fine on your own,” he said coolly, “I prefer to avoid any type of…manual labor.”  
She blinked at him in disbelief, droplets falling off her lashes, “You have got to be kidding me,” she grumbled.  
“Care to join me?”  
The young woman stood up and walked towards him, ignoring the basket. Once close, a rather dastardly thought struck her. Annoyed with Mycroft for his bad attitude, a sly smile formed on her face and before he could react she pounced. Isabelle closed her grip on the handle of his umbrella and pulled it unceremoniously from his hand.  
Quickly she retreated, rain coming down harder on the canopy of black fabric rolling off and dripping onto the already puddle laden ground.  
“Isabelle, what are you doing?” Mycroft demanded as he crossed his arms, rapidly getting drenched without his cover.  “You want this back, you have to come and get it!” came the terse reply. Mycroft frowned at her, “This is utterly childish!” he stubbornly crossing his arms.  
“Yes _, I know_. Come and get it!” Isabelle insisted, tightening her grip on the wooden handle. She could feel the warmth of where his hand had been.  
Mycroft’s brow furrowed over narrowed gray eyes, water droplets dripping off the tip of his long nose. The cold was melting through his layers of protection, she could tell. It was certainly pouring now. It had been so sudden, how could she have not seen the rain coming? Perhaps Mycroft had, and he agreed to the picnic to rectify his guilt  and have fun messing with her. She wouldn’t put it past him.  
“Come on Mycroft, it’s only a short ways. Come and get it!” Isabelle pressed, waggling the object tauntingly over her head.

Several moments passed where nothing happened, both willing the other to cease and desist. Of course it turned out that neither wanted to. And so the weaker willed gave in first…  
“Remarkably childish,” Mycroft complained to himself with a deceiving eye roll. He walked over to her, his shoes making a soft “squelch” against the damp grass.  He was a few steps away from him; hand held out to take his precious accessory…except Isabelle wasn’t having it.  She darted away from him ignoring the splashes of dirty water soaking through to her socks, “Come and get it!”  
“What on earth has come over you? I am soaking wet and wish to have my umbrella returned. Now see sense and come back here!”  
Isabelle shook her head with a grin, “No. I know it’s childish, but no,” she shrugged, “Come and get it.”  
Much to her surprise, he complied. And she decided on the same again, wondering if she had some sort of death wish in mind.  Mycroft seemed to be growing increasingly irate with her as he quickened his pace to her side. She was much faster though, and she darted further away.  
This went on about three more times before she realized she was tiring him out. He continued to follow her every step. She knew he was stubborn, but usually he was about, you know…staying still. Always.  
She stopped to let him closer, feeling slightly guilty now, stray wet hairs clinging to her skin. He suddenly stopped as well.  
“I won’t move anymore ok?” she said, holding out his constant companion for him to take. But he didn’t do anything but stand with arms crossed yet again over his chest.

“Mycroft?”

“If you want me, come and get me,” he shrugged nonchalantly as though he hadn’t said something entirely adorable. Isabelle giggled and rushed to his side, covering him with the umbrella -though at this point it did little good. She stood comfortably close, the warmth of his body radiating through the drenched layers of clothing. She leaned forwards and kissed him softly on the lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He withdrew, not enough to stop the initial embrace but to remove her arms from his body.  
Isabelle blushed and retracted, “God, sorry!” she yelped, unsure why she was apologizing for something she’d done many times before.  
Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Don’t apologize it’s just… nothing, shall we go?” he gestured vaguely to the drenched picnic basket with his free hand.  
Feeling rather down, the young woman went through the rain to grab the basket. What was with this guy anyways? One moment they were having fun and growing closer, the next he was putting up shields!  
This sunk uncomfortably in her stomach. Was this the extent of their relationship? Would he eventually grow bored of her games and throw her away like a skipping stone on a pond? She tried to shake those thoughts away- For crying out loud he just disliked physical contact sometimes! But her thoughts still trailed off to the boyfriend before him, Roger Ellingham. Now _him_ she thought she loved, despite that small niggling of uncertainty she was willing to devote herself to him… then he ended it. He left without a single word, and Isabelle contracted further into her self-hatred.

Isabelle carried the basket back to Mycroft and the two began their walk back to his car. “Are you alright?” he inquired without looking.  
She nodded, “Yep, fine and dandy,” she rubbed at her arm with her free hand. He tilted his head ever so slightly, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that expression.”  
“It means that I’m ok,” she assured, suddenly glad for the rain because he couldn’t see her crying.

* * *

 

**Next up: Be afraid. Be very, very...afraid. (Bit of a time skip though I believe it's longer than some of the other chapters here ;)**


	10. Be afraid. Be very, very...afraid.

**Be afraid; be very, very…afraid*-**

Lily frowned at her father, “Did that really happen?”  
“It did,” came the distracted reply, his lips pressed against the knuckles of his left hand as he leaned against it. The young girl picked at her skirt thoughtfully, considering what she wanted to hear next. Surprised with herself that talking with her father had proved entertaining enough to hold her attention.  
“Daddy…”  
“Yes?”  
“I don’t understand how this all works,” Lily spouted, “I don’t get it. Every story seems to change, it’s all over the place. How long did this go on?” she leaned forwards, pressing her fingertips against his desk,  
“Oh, and exactly how long did she stay with her idiot sisters?”  
He gave her a wary stare, gray eyes shielding something, “If I tell you, will you stop asking about your mother?” he questioned.  
She nodded solemnly, “Yeah, sure.”  
Running a hand through his short dark hair, Mycroft Holmes continued on a story that changed things just a little bit.

* * *

"I dislike relationships, they're too....complicated."

Mycroft had once said to his mother with a listless shrug, one particular day. He had been  _just_  old enough to be badgered about that sort of thing and by far this was the best reply he could conjure. She had tutted at him, but decided to leave it be for a while.   
He remembered that on the eve of his twenty-fifth birthday the whole thing had been brought up again, _"Do you think you'll find yourself a nice girl and settle down Myc?"_  
To which Mycroft had scoffed and replied, "Why would I waste my time on something so plebian? I have more to worry about than some idiotic person. And it is  _Myc-roft_!"

Eventually the whole thing did die down...when he moved far, far away.

Oh, but what if his dear Mummy could see him now! Preparing for a one year anniversary with a lovely young woman named Isabelle Long. The stuffing would have been hugged out of him! Shaking off that horrible thought, Mycroft shoved his arms into a white shirt and set about buttoning it closed. An oblong mirror stood in front of him. His bed rested just to his left and the door to his bedroom to the right, a closet and dresser behind him.

 _Three hundred and sixty-five days_.  That was a long time. Or at least, it felt as though it was. In truth most people considered a year a short time, not enough time to do what they'd always dreamed.  
_Those people were idiots._ If one was given one year to follow their dreams _and_ if they had the proper drive-they had a high chance of success. Or, they would discover that what they were yearning for was actually not for them, and they would move on. But um... that was straying from his original point. Mycroft tucked his shirt in then pulled his dark colored waistcoat off its place on the bed, pulling it over his shouldres-he contemplated the whole thing.

Him, Mycroft H.A. Holmes, having an anniversary dinner....on purpose! Going out (so to speak) with someone in general seemed like a ridiculous endeavor in the first place-because he just, didn't do people. He didn't like them...talking to most of them was like chewing glass! To reiterate, he wanted to protect people, but he just couldn’t deal speaking with them.  
Besides that, he could hardly allow such an attachment. Attachment led to heartbreak and unwanted emotions. *Ahem* Not that he could be broken so easily of course.  
Isabelle was dreadfully normal too, she wasn't exceptionally smart, or very pretty (that is, to the general populace), her sentences tended to be halted and unsure which drove him (figuratively) insane. And she tended to cry a lot. Or at least, a lot for someone that Mycroft was affiliated with - _not too much for someone Sherlock is affiliated with_ , he thought wryly.  
She had such a low self-esteem everything seemed to set her off, and Mycroft would end up making some lengthy apology speech to set her mind at ease. But he did this willingly. Something always tugged at him when she started crying. He could tell that it was at least fairly warranted in each situation, she had been placed with a family that treated her like dirt and she was looking for something new and different -only to be disappointed by the path she’d chosen.    
That didn’t make it any easier to interpret what the problem was though, he had to resist the urge to just pat her shoulder and nervously mumble “there, there”.

Mycroft turned around slowly a few times in front of the mirror to ensure there were no creases in his clothing, and found himself frowning at his appearance. Decent enough, if not a bit too... forget it, now was not the time to become self-conscious. He grabbed his deep blue tie and began futzing with it.

This wasn’t going to last anyways, he reminded himself. People are remarkably unreliable- including he himself. Either could lose their nerve and break up with the other, and that would be that. Simple, easy… but really, what a terrible thought! Because if one were to stop seeing the other for whatever reason, Mycroft would no longer have the benefit of her sweet little smiles and knowing jokes. The conversations filled with all sorts of ridiculous topics and… well, just seeing her set him at some sort of ease.  
Something in his head always screamed at him to not get any closer to this person, because he knew she was going to die, or leave him, or, or _something._ And he would end up hurt * _ahem ahem_ * not that he could be hurt by anyone of course! But she knew just how to get past most of that.  
He straightened the fabric a few more times to ensure exactness then flicked his hand across his pant leg to rid it of imaginary creases.  He looked presentable, and that was good enough at least for Isabelle.

Mycroft stepped over to the desk and grabbed his pocket-watch and clipped it to the vest, tucking it then into his inner pocket. Finally finished, he grabbed his laptop from the bed and carried it out of his bedroom, through the hallway, and into his office. He had one in an official government building, and one in his own home (which in his eyes provided more safety than the government building). Much to his surprise, his mobile started ringing, reaching one pale hand into it, he removed the offending item, raising an eyebrow when he realized that it was Isabelle.  
After all this time he’d finally given her his mobile number, his assistant (Let’s call her Anthea for simplicities sake) had objected to him taking personal calls while she was working. (He was somewhat sure it was intended as a joke, but he’d never been good at that sort of thing.)

“Hello My dear,” Mycroft greeted with a genial smile, walking across the room and placing his weight into his overly plush office chair.   
“M-Mycroft hi,” she stumbled, “I uh, wanted to call you before you started off for my uh, my work…”   
He frowned, “Is something wrong?” he asked, noting the lightest of tremors in her words. There was a pause, then her melodic voice came back, “No, not really. I was just… I was-I was fired.”  
His eyes widened almost invisibly, but he didn’t say anything-waiting for her to explain the situation at hand.  
“I-It seems they’ve figured out how useless I am,” she laughed humorlessly.  
His hand tightened immeasurably on his phone, “Perhaps my dear, they realized that you were too good for the position they had offered you,” he hoped that this was comforting. When she spoke next, he could hear the sweet little smile in her words, “Thank you.”  
There was a moment of rather awkward silence before Isabelle Long squeaked, “I can’t go out with you anymore.”  
Mycroft’s posture tensed, and he leaned forwards, “Pardon?”   
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sure this sounds like I’m just upset about losing my job and everything but…I’ve been thinking about this for a while!” he heard he take in a calming breath, “And I-I really hate doing this over the phone, but I didn’t want us to have our Anniversary dinner only for it to end with a breakup-that just seemed so wrong! I want you to know that I care about you, I just don’t see this…going anywhere,” her voice became heavy, and he could tell she was going to cry (how very typical).   
“I’m not like you!” she stated after more silence, he could tell that it was getting to her, “I didn’t want to walk up to the door and just say ‘ _Mycroft, I no longer wish to see you on a-what was it you said- courting basis.’_ I just couldn’t! I hope we’ll stay as friends….Please say something.”

“Goodbye Miss Long.”

He sighed resignedly at his phone, hanging up on Isabelle. Well, that solved his problem.

* * *

"Go away I’m busy.”

“Ah dear brother, what contribution to science could you be making now? The cure for the ice cream headache?”

Mycroft smirked at his younger brother as his shoulders tensed, Sherlock’s eye pressed against his microscope. “That would be your line of expertise, not mine,” he quipped back.  
The elder Holmes brother snorted softly, before placing a file upon the tabletop next to Sherlock’s left hand, “I want you to look into this for me.”  
The younger grunted in that _oh-so- clever_ way of his, before he grabbed at the file and opened it. He seemed to be in a less objectionable mood then the last time Mycroft had seen him.  He watched blandly as Sherlock quickly read over the pages, then turned around to stare at his brother, “You could solve this case in your sleep, why have you brought this to me?” he questioned, ice blue eyes narrowing.

“Leg-work,” he offered, grip tightening on his umbrella at the ghastly word. Sherlock shook his head, gaze flickering up and down his brother’s form searching for the truth, “No…You came here with different motives. What’s happened?”  
Mycroft let out a disgruntled sigh, “Believe me Sherlock, it is nothing. I was being kind, you must try it sometime,” he took the file from his brother’s hand-if he was going to be childish about it…  
“Where is your girlfriend, I thought you two were joined at the hip,” Sherlock leaned against the table with a smirk-unknowing that he’d just hit the mark.  
Schooling in his features Mycroft spoke flatly, “She and I are no longer _an item_ -so to speak,” he stated. Sherlock stood up and left the room, forcing his brother to follow him, “Feeling pathetic are we brother?” he asked, most likely gleaning information on the matter as he watched Mycroft walk.   
“Pathetic is not a word I would use,” the elder Holmes scoffed, “Perhaps I was upset initially, but I did not waste any more than a few minutes on the matter.”  
Sherlock tilted his head, “She broke up with you.” The smile that followed included teeth, coaxing a long suffering sigh from his brother.  
“Yes Sherlock, she did.”  
He watched as his little brother collapsed onto his chair, long limbs seemingly everywhere until settled in their place.  
“How about Heartsick?”  
“What?”   
“A word you would use,” Sherlock said, his deep rumbling voice like some sort of giant animal’s purr.   
“For God’s sake Sherlock let it drop,” Mycroft protested, “I am not heartsick nor am I pathetic. Tired perhaps,” he smiled coldly.

Deciding that he’d had enough the elder Holmes brother turned for the door, he was just about to open _said door_ when Sherlock’s voice was heard again, “What did she say?”  
He turned around, “Come again?” he sighed.  
The younger shifted his position so that he was more standing than sitting on his chair, “ _Isabelle Long,”_ he said condescendingly, “What did she say when she broke up with you?”  
Brow furrowing, the elder walked further into the room, “I didn’t write it down.”  
Sherlock scoffed, and Mycroft found a smirk growing on his face, “Ludicrous I know,” he said with an airy laugh. And so the conversation was repeated to his younger brother, word for word-minus the speech hiccups… He wasn’t really sure why he did it except to prove to his brother that he still had an excellent memory. What was more confusing was Sherlock’s insistence to hear about it in the first place.  
“Go see her.”  
For the third time Mycroft expressed his confusion, “What?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, “She clearly stated that she wants to remain friends. I take that as an opening to visit her. Do it, preferably today.”  
“Sherlock…Are you attempting to give me relationship advice?” Mycroft questioned, one eyebrow raised towards his hairline.  
The younger snorted, “Don’t be stu- don’t be ridiculous,” he corrected himself, hoping to avoid a lecture from his brother on how stupid Sherlock was in comparison to himself, “I am merely being kind,” he offered his brother another one of his condescending smirks.

Realizing that life was too short for this, the elder nodded to his brother, “I will leave the file,” he said plainly, placing the item in question upon the small “dining room” table before he left, swinging his umbrella theatrically.

* * *

How did he allow himself to get wrapped up in these sorts of things? Relationships, undercover jobs, games of deduction with Sherlock…gym classes. A shiver ran down his spine.

And now he was standing directly in front Isabelle’s apartment (flat?) door. He sucked in a calming breath, mind racing through several variants on how the interaction could end- all in all reaching some terrible conclusions.  
Losing his train of thought he rang the doorbell three times methodically. A few quiet moments passed and then the door was opened, revealing the face of…which one was it? At any rate, she had the shortest hair, “What are you doing here?” she yelped, shielding her petit body with the door.  
_“Care to make an educated guess?”_ he wanted to say, but restrained himself, “I’ve come to visit your sister-you know which one I presume- is she at home?”  
He knew that she was of course, her car was parked in the driveway-and she hardly ever left building after nine unless she was on a date with him.-no longer a problem obviously.

She wrinkled her rather small nose at him, “She’s busy, and I doubt she wants to see you anyway so-bug off!” she snarled. Mycroft stared down at her and she quailed under his gaze. A cut on her right hand (clearly made by a pair of sharpened scissors rather than a kitchen knife) told enough for him to know that something was wrong, and he stepped forwards making the short haired one back away from the door in surprise.  
The inside of the flat was rather comfortable (read: small) with dull cream colored walls and even duller colored furniture. The kitchen was separated by a long counter from the rest of the room, surface covered in random bits of cutlery and dirty dishes.   
The other sister was seated on the sofa watching the television, a bowl of cereal in her hand and a bored expression on her face.

The first sister- ah yes, Maria wasn’t it? - crossed her arms over her chest, “Get out of here!” she protested.  
“Which one is her room?” Mycroft inquired cordially, though it became clear which one was hers the moment after. The other one (Gloria) scowled from her spot on the sofa, “I should call the police,” she snapped, shoving her half eaten bowl of cereal onto the side table.  
“You could, little good it would do you,” The Holmes said, walking towards Isabelle’s door. He stopped just in front of it, when a hiccup-y sound came from just behind it. The two sisters had begun circling him like vultures but he had tuned out their voices, the door was locked. He rapped on the door with his knuckle, “Isabelle?” he spoke.  
No response, merely more of that strange snuffling noise. Frowning to himself he turned to the vultures, “What is she doing in there exactly?”  
Gloria crossed her arms, “Learning her lesson, now get out!”  
He rolled his eyes and turned to the other sister, the one that seemed more afraid of him, “Do you have a key for this door?”

After much squalling, he was finally given the small metal object and he shoved it into the keyhole. “My dear I am coming in, I will give you ten seconds to prepare yourself!” he explained to the door, not wanting to catch her unclothed or in some other embarrassing situation-whatever that may be.  
After he finished counting, he tentatively opened the door, revealing a darkened room. He could tell immediately that she was alone as he suspected, he stepped further in, scrabbling for a light switch. Once found he clicked the lights on, what met his sight was not one he would soon forget: Isabelle was collapsed on the bed sobbing into her folded hands, her silky chestnut hair splayed around her- and he quickly noted a few chunks were cut much shorter than the yard long strands beside them. Her jean clad knees were pressed to her chest, thin legs scrunched beneath her frame. Mycroft stiffened, “Isabelle?” he asked softly, hoping not to startle her.  
A few moments passed before she acknowledged his presence, her head lifted and turned revealing…Good lord. Along the right side of her cheek blood was pouring from a deep cut, it had stained her hands and her clothing and other parts of her face where she had wiped at her eyes. She looked blearily at him, not quite comprehending who he was- severe blood loss if nothing else. The crimson liquid had begun to dry along the edges of her bed sheet.  
“M-Mycroft, what are you doing here? You aren’t…” she mumbled after a short session of confused silence.  
Stomach lurching Mycroft tossed his Umbrella aside and came to her, grabbing at her hands and pulling her up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her in an incredibly awkward hug. She pressed her face against his body, spreading blood all over him-he didn’t mind much this wasn’t the first time blood had gotten on one of his suits and besides he could change later.  
“Th-they tried to c…to cut my-“  
“I know,” he interrupted, “It’s alright my dear, you’re safe,” he ran a hand through her long hair, “I’m…I’m here.”  
He knew he couldn’t keep her like this; she had lost a lot of blood already (head wounds, terrible.) and she needed medical care. He carefully maneuvered her so that he could reach into his pocket and remove his phone. He dialed Anthea, asking for a car to come pick her up and take her to the hospital. She complied with no more than a “Yes sir” before she hung up and he was left alone with a delirious Isabelle.

Neither Maria nor Gloria seemed concerned with his presence anymore, and anger boiled deep within him. They were going to pay for this, ordering her to stay in her room without such a wound! He tightened his hold on her and Isabelle sniffled, “I-I-I broke up with you,” she mumbled. He nodded, “I know,” he replied, edging his way onto the corner of the bed.  
“Izthis proper?”   
After a short wait Anthea had arrived and she eased Isabelle to her feet with the help of her employer. Mycroft transferred the weight of his ex-girlfriend fully onto his assistant and then grabbed his umbrella. “You go on ahead, I came in a different car…and of course, there is unfinished business to attend to.”   
The beautiful young woman nodded curtly before she guided Isabelle from the room.  
“Oh my God!” One of the vultures cried, most likely at the sight of their sister’s facial wound. Waiting until Isabelle was out of the building, Mycroft stood patiently by the doorway of her bedroom. It was very empty, yet personalized. An oval shaped mirror stood in the corner next to an old oak dresser. The bed was a faded sky blue all around with dark blue pillows. A stuffed teddy bear sat on the side table alongside a glass of untouched water. A poster for some movie called “Kiki’s Delivery Service” was taped crookedly to the wall.

Taking in a slow breath Mycroft turned and exited the room to find Maria and Gloria staring at him.  “I must say you two amuse me, you stand before me so…fearless, even after your dear sister has been essentially carried from the building bleeding and delirious,” he swung the umbrella around his pointer finger.  
Maria spoke up first, “I didn’t think she was hurt that bad!” she objected. Gloria nodded in agreement. The eldest Holmes brother smiled coldly, making them tense visibly, “Oh I’m sure, of course that hardly matters. It _was_ your fault it happened.”  
They both bit their bottom lip at the same time, as though they both shared a brain- something he was sure of.  
“I will come directly to the point; Isabelle is no longer going live with you. She may contact you in any way she sees fit but not the other way around. If you object in any way I will most certainly have you incarcerated for some unspeakable act that I have not worked out yet…If that does not scare you let me go a step further. I will be sure to ensure you are immediately fired from whatever pathetic jobs you have scraped up-and that you shall never gain employment again in this country …You do remember our little talk last time don’t you?”  
They stared blankly at him, fear coursing through their pathetic little minds. Gloria shook her head softly, “You can’t do this…she’s our sister!”  
“Is she? I’d quite forgotten,” Mycroft replied condescendingly, “I had always assumed her to be your pet.”

With that, he left.

* * *

When Mycroft next saw Isabelle Long it was at his home, her cheek marred with a large white bandage hiding the stitches beneath. She still seemed somewhat out of it, but otherwise no worse for wear.  “I’m sorry about your suit,” She apologized in a tired voice. He waved her off, “Perfectly alright,” he assured, “This one was becoming too worn anyway.”

She rubbed at her arm, gaze fixed on the ground, “Are we…still broken up?” she asked finally. He blinked at her, “I fear I should be asking you that, not the other way around.”  
She smiled crookedly, suddenly looking up at him with reddened eyes, “I-I don’t think so,” she said softly, “I need…I need to figure things out now,” she swallowed.  
Mycroft nodded, though something annoyingly tugged at his heart, “If that is what you wish. I hope you would still like to stay with me until you are on your feet once again,” he offered in his kindest tone. Her smile grew minutely, “Yes, thank you... Mycroft I need to know…W-what did you say to them?”

The dreaded question.

He shrugged nonchalantly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Something close to anger flashed across her face, “I asked you not to threaten them, I love them…I asked you not to!” she ran a hand agitatedly through her hair, her previously happy demeanor dropped like a stone, “Why do you always do this!?”  
He wasn’t sure what she meant by _always_ , as he didn’t make it a habit to threaten people in front of her, but he didn’t say so.

“I was doing what I deemed right Miss Long I’m sure you know this _quite well_ , now please go upstairs. I trust you know where the guest room is.”

With that final word he turned around and set out for his own room, emotions unwillingly roiling around inside of him…Life just wasn’t fair.

* * *

 

**As you can tell (you, my one reader) I'm putting these out in chunks. I apologize. 8P**

**Up Next: Bad Habits**


	11. Bad Habits

**Bad Habits-**

Lillian was forced to leave her father’s office after that, finding herself leaning heavily against the wall just outside the closed door. Well, that raised more questions than answered them… They were living together, but for how long before she moved out? Or did she never move out…? Did she get another job, or rely on her now ex-boyfriend? What ever happened to “the vultures”? etc. etc.  
Her father was clearly too busy to continue telling her stories for now, but Lily was nothing if not incredibly impatient.

…

“So, what do you know about my mother?”

“Lily?”

Sherlock stared down at his niece with a bemused expression on his thin face, lips quirked into a barely a smile. He was rather fond of her after all, if not annoyed by her overbearing parent.  
“Oh yeah, _hello Uncle Sherlock_. _Now_ , what do you know about my mum? Or to be more specific, what do you know about after the one year anniversary thing?”  
She marched further into 221B and seated herself comfortably in her Uncle’s chair, much to his annoyance.  
“What makes you think I know anything?” he questioned, humoring the poor deluded child. Lily shrugged, “I’ve heard the stories, and you seemed to like her. Daddy won’t talk anymore so what do you know?” she folded her hands on her lap. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t _like her_ -I tolerated her.”  
Lillian sighed dramatically, and opened her mouth, "-

**(The badgering that goes here has been cut out for sake of the reader’s sanity)**

Realizing quite painfully that she wasn’t going to leave without hearing one tale, Sherlock huffed and collapsed onto John’s chair in a flailing of long limbs.  
“I only know what she told me; needless to say her complaints were highly amusing.”

* * *

So this was it. She was living with Mycroft Holmes now…why did that not make her happy? Isabelle had considered this the entire night. She had confessed to herself and to her sisters that she loved the man. She wanted to spend more time with him. He had a lovely home…what was it? But then it hit her like a ton of bricks. She hadn’t _asked_ to stay with him. _Leaving her home hadn’t been her idea_! It certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice to live with the man she broke up with only two days before. The entire thing had been forced upon her, stripping her protective layers until Isabelle had nothing left!

No family, no real home, no job, no relationship…nothing.

And so she cried a little bit more. But in truth that didn’t help the situation. If she was really honest with herself, she was glad that all this had happened. She had been seriously hurt, and had Mycroft not come bad things might have happened. He’d gone quickly to her side and pulled her into a protective (if not uncomfortably given) hug and he had insured her wellbeing. But… let’s face it, it wasn’t the gash in her face that hurt the most. Something had finally snapped for Isabelle, Maria and Gloria had tried to cut her hair again (literally, forcing her into a chair and holding her down to do it!)…then she was locked in her room like a child or a caged animal as soon as Maria had gotten cut. It wasn’t like before when they had just locked her out of the flat or when they would put her down for being too “Izzy” or the dreaded “A” word. This was too much, it overwhelmed her. And after losing her job (the only job she’d ever had mind you), she’d lost it.

The young woman grabbed at her head and dug her fingernails into her scalp, “Get a hold of yourself Isabelle,” she mumbled. This was too much! She felt like a baby reaching for something that had been taken, but was (of course) powerless to stand up and take it back. And for that, she almost resented Mycroft. His self-important attitude and reluctance to tell her what was said to Maria and Gloria. The control he took of the entire situation (though needed) was like shackling Isabelle to this place! She wrapped her arms around her knees and sighed. She needed to be kind to him; she was a guest in his house (she had no other place to go!) She just wasn’t going to do it happily.

When the morning finally came around, Isabelle was met with her “savior” leaving for work. A thin black briefcase clutched in his hand, the all-important umbrella draped over his arm. He gave her a warm (if not forced) smile, “Good morning,” he greeted pleasantly. Absently running her fingers over the bandage on her cheek, Isabelle grunted her best reply. She was sleep deprived and had obviously lost quite a bit of blood the night before-she had a right to be a bit belligerent. Mycroft seemed to think so because he nodded, “I have breakfast foods of various kinds on the table if you find yourself with an appetite. I’m afraid I must be off,” he gestured vaguely with his briefcase. Isabelle clutched her arms, not exactly wanting to be alone in the big empty house-but still unsure about whether she wanted _his_ company. Ignoring the sign of her discomfort, he smiled disarmingly and set off for the front door.

Isabelle-after she had eaten a light breakfast (which was predictably delicious) ambled about the house, unsure about touching anything for fear it would upset Mycroft. He was incredibly organized and she would rather not mess up whatever system he had laid out for himself. The library was her best bet if she wanted a chance of returning things to the way they were.  
Isabelle walked slowly through the comfortable space, fingers tracing over the thick volumes as she read the titles. Most were non-fiction, and in languages she couldn’t even begin to try and identify.  She frowned, not coming across anything that she might enjoy reading (except perhaps for a copy of Treasure Island which was tucked safely in the far corner of the room). Her second tour of the house procured nothing new, except where a third bathroom was hiding. Isabelle considered going into Mycroft’s room or office but knew that it would count as a spiteful act if she did so.  And thus the rest of the day was filled with boredom.

When Mycroft returned it was late. Isabelle was starving and tired and her stitches itched like mad! She looked irritably up at him from her place on her bed. His mouth formed a tight smile which he removed quickly. “Hey,” Isabelle said, running her fingers continuously over her bandaged cheek as though it would stop itching if she focused hard enough.  “I merely wanted to see how you were doing before I departed to my room. Do you need or want anything?” he inquired politely.  
She stared at him for a moment, wanting to say something. To complain or…or just to thank him for asking. But instead shook her head, and he was gone.

* * *

The following week mostly went in this manner. Mycroft left early in the morning and came home late at night, except for a few isolated moments when he would return to retrieve something or have a meal with her. Isabelle was gradually feeling worse and worse about the situation. The small child was being provided for but felt unwelcome. Her car was yet to be retrieved and she found a strange inability to ask Mycroft to get it (!) which she found frustrating beyond belief. 

She considered calling Maria or Gloria to come pick her up and take her home. To _beg_ them to take her back! She was sorry for fighting them, sorry for everything…except, she wasn’t sorry. Not really. Not this time. The one thing that kept Isabelle her own person was her long hair. She had only gone to get it trimmed, never cut more than an inch. Maria and Gloria couldn’t accept this for reasons the younger woman couldn’t understand…perhaps long hair was socially unacceptable. By the end of the week Isabelle was desperate for any human contact as it wasn’t exactly the same to be around Mycroft when conversations were left to four word sentences.

This, (typically) was when someone broke into the house.

Isabelle had been eating lunch when the sound of the door long being jimmied caught her ear. It was much too early for Mycroft to be home and besides the two of them no one ever came over. She swallowed nervously and edged her way around, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps, pressing her back against the wall near the doorway.  Slowly she peered out to where the sound was coming from, fear coursing through her body like blood. _If I die here…_ she thought desperately, unsure out how to end the sentence when her gaze finally landed on the intruder.

“Sherlock!”

The dark haired man spun around to face her (coat swirling around his ankles dramatically). “Oh for God’s sake,” he practically moaned. Isabelle smiled despite herself as she stepped out from her hiding place, “What are you doing here?”  
“I should ask you the same question,” he replied rather haughtily, his ice blue eyes flickering up and down as he took in her appearance. “Ah,” he added, and Isabelle realized that he had deduced the situation at hand. Self-consciously she tugged at her thick chestnut braid, “Yeah,” she swallowed. Sherlock pursed his lips then turned around, searching for something, for “what” she couldn’t begin to guess, “I had assumed you had gotten back together, though the circumstances were rather vague,” he flashed a false smile over his shoulder.  Isabelle bit her bottom lip, “I’m uh…I don’t think we did,” she said softly. “What?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, moving through the wide area, every so often turning to search vases and behind paintings.  Isabelle desperately wanted to ask what the nut was looking for but forced it to the back of her mind, “I don’t think we’re together anymore… He’s just letting me stay,” she shrugged her thin shoulders. Sherlock made a strange grunting sound in the back of his throat in response before walking into another room.

Isabelle followed him into the kitchen and watched as the pale man rooted through the refrigerator, “Sh-Sherlock, can I ask you something?”  
He didn’t respond, and the young woman took this as a sign to keep talking. She toyed with her hair as she considered exactly how to word it, “Is your brother…mentally unstable?” she finally spoke, a light edge of humor added just in case Sherlock decided to take hers seriously. She felt too uncomfortable to say what she really felt about the situation.  
Sherlock let out a strange laugh, deep like the soft thrum of vocal chords, “I’ve always assumed that to be the case,” he responded, shoving a jar of mayonnaise out of the fridge and onto the floor, “I would love to hear why you think so,” he added, shooting her a smirk. The young woman leaned against the counter, “Well let’s see,” she said smoothly, “He’s obsessive about the littlest things, he has the weirdest eating patterns, he’s always emotionally closed off half the time, he’s _so lazy_ , he doesn’t like touch except–you know- _when he does_!” she vented, counting his faults off on her fingers. Then suddenly her eyes stung, “And he won’t talk to me anymore!” she folded her arms in front of her, “I’m going crazy, I feel so lost here! I resent being here, but I’m also grateful for all that Mycroft has done for me! I lost my job and I-I’ll never get another one because I’m stupid, shitty, _Isabelle_!” she covered her mouth slim which had tightened into a frown, desperately wishing she had remained silent.

Sherlock had stopped his search to stare at her, surprised by the outburst, “Uhuh,” he replied stupidly. His expression turned from surprise to disinterest and he began to replace the items in the fridge creating a silence between the two for what felt like forever to Isabelle. “As much as I despise being the sounding voice in this idiotic simpatico the two of you have created. Have you considered explaining this to my brother?” he didn’t look at her as he said this, focused on the task at hand.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip, “I tried, I just can’t get the words out,” she swallowed. Sherlock stood up to his full height and closed the fridge door, “My brother is nothing if not…understanding,” he wrinkled his nose, “I would rephrase that but I fear confusing you. What I mean is, if you were to explain what you want he would _gladly_ comply.”  
“I think I know that,” her voice took up a strange fondness, “I wouldn’t be here if-” she stopped and took in a deep breath, “I’ll stop talking now. Do you know, you’re great at giving advice?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, “Apparently.”

* * *

  
Sherlock had continued his search for some time before he seemed resigned to not finding it and he left. After their “ _heart to heart”_ (Sherlock would have choked on bile if he had heard it described as such) he hadn’t said a word to Isabelle-and she was ok with it. She needed that time to think. And think she did, until late at night when Mycroft returned.  
Isabelle was seated comfortably at the dining room table sipping at a glass of tap water when he entered the room, brushing a hand tiredly over one eye. “Good evening Miss Long,” he greeted without looking at her.  “Mr. Holmes,” Isabelle replied, her voice lowering a register rather mockingly. He didn’t react to this, “And how are you?” he added per the usual.  
Isabelle bit her bottom lip as she thought of her reply, “Not great,” she said after a pause, “Could you uh, sit down?” she gestured to a chair. He shot her a bemused look before he complied, resting one pale hand on the tabletop and crossing his legs at the ankles. It harkened Isabelle back to their first meeting when they had shared that blueberry muffin. It seemed so trivial now, but it still meant a lot.

“Is something troubling you?” Mycroft inquired, grey eyed gaze fixed on her. Isabelle fingered a loose thread on the knee of her jeans, “Uh…” she managed. The man sitting before her lifted his chin, “Does this have anything to do with my brother breaking in earlier today?” he inquired with a lazy all-knowing air.  
 “A little…not really, sort of,” Isabelle rambled then with a frustrated cry she said, “Ug, I want my car!”  
Mycroft stared for a moment then uttered a simple, “Oh.”  
“ _Oh_ he says,” she scoffed, her palm against her forehead.   Mycroft hastened to say more, “My deepest apologies, I’m afraid it…hadn’t occurred to me to retrieve it,” he had an oddly thoughtful expression on his face, considering how he’d missed that detail or even bothered that she’d brought up this fact. Isabelle nodded, “Its ok,” she lied, “I should have reminded you probably the second day. I’ve just been feeling sort of off,” she gestured with her free hand to her still bandaged cheek, “If you want the truth, I’ve been feeling more than just off,” she gave him a meaningful look.  
Mycroft frowned, “How so?” his voice was dripping with syrup, something that seemed to come when he became defensive. He’d likely picked up on at least part of the problem.  “I don’t have a job, I don’t-” she swallowed, “I don’t feel like I have a family. And you’re just… so silent. And that’s fine!” she added quickly, “But I don’t feel even sort of at home at this place.”  
Mycroft uncrossed his legs and sat straight, fingers still resting lightly against the table, “I’m not sure what I can do about that,” he responded stiffly.  “I don’t either,” she shrugged listlessly, “I told you before- I need to figure things out. But I don’t know where to start,” she felt pathetic. She _was_ pathetic. She’d _always_ been pathetic. But now she was pathetic in front of Mycroft Holmes, and that felt even worse.

“I’m tired,” Isabelle stated suddenly, “thanks for listening to me whine,” she smiled softly as she stood up, shoving her braid over her shoulder.  
Mycroft stood up alongside her and took her hand before she could walk away, his fingers barely pressing against her pale skin, “Miss- Isabelle,” he corrected himself tersely, “If you aren’t comfortable here, I am most willing to help you pay for a flat. Or if you require a certain meal created I could…” his voice trailed off almost helplessly, his emotionless tones not quite fitting what he was saying or the way he held her hand in his. Isabelle felt something lodge in her throat and nearly choke her, why was he like this? Why was he not like Maria or Gloria, and asking her to get over it? Why was he so intent on helping her?  
“I don’t want you to waste your money on me,” Isabelle said softly, spinning around to face him. Her eyebrows drawn together, “Just talk to me, like when we went on dates or when we had that hot chocolate,” she formed her thin lips into a forced smile, “I’ll be fine-really.”  
He released his hold on her hand, “Of course,” he spoke calmly a serious expression on his face, “Goodnight Isabelle,” he added, his usual emotionless voice mingling with something she couldn’t quite identify.

That night, Isabelle slept soundly. And when she woke, she found the room around her changed by a glass of water on the nightstand, her Kiki’s Delivery Service poster taped crookedly to the wall (at the exact angle it had been in her previous room.) and her Teddy Bear (General Stuffington…don’t judge)  resting at the foot of her bed. Blue sheets, blankets and pillows sat on top of the chest and the rest of Isabelle’s clothing rested serenely atop the dresser.  
Going downstairs she realized that Mycroft had already left for work. When she looked out the window she saw her car in the driveway.

 

**Up next: Cooking requires...Skill.**


End file.
